The Witchmasters Key (Blood Circles 8)
by zenfrodo
Summary: '70s show/AU. Still recovering from the CIA's brainwashing, Frank and Joe are sent to England on the trail of occult thieves who have stolen priceless artifacts of myth and legend. Yet the powerful Witchmaster means to keep his prize, threatening the Hardys' lives & souls. Will the brothers recover the legendary Grail, or will they be sacrificed in the darkest of evil rituals?
1. New Beginnings

**_A/N:_ _Happy Yuletide, everyone! I'm back & still hanging in there. My thanks to all those who read, reviewed, and emailed me in the long interim; you've helped keep my spirits up enormously! Anyway — the characters of Frank & Joe Hardy, their dad Fenton and Aunt Gertrude, and Chet Morton belong to Simon & Schuster. Those characters as portrayed here are from the 1970s TV show, "The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries". This tale takes on the infamous blue-spine book "The Witchmaster's Key"; Chauncey Rowbotham, Vincent Burelli, Nip Hadley, Lance McKnight, & John Pickenbaugh are from the book, though their re-interpretation is my own._**

 ** _Quick tour for those not familiar with the show: Bayport's in Massachusetts, the Hardys' mother is dead, the only named friends are Chet and Callie, and Joe has never dated Iola. The show also accepts paranormal phenomena as real, and I take that ball & run pretty far with it._**

 _ **My tales are set in the 1970s, before cell phones existed, computers were just starting to gain a foothold in our lives, and the Internet was mostly unknown. If you think "Why didn't they just…?", the answer's probably "Because it didn't exist back then." This tale is part of my ongoing Blood Circles series and picks up a few weeks after my version of "Soul Survivor"; the story order is on my profile. Enjoy!**_

 _# # #_

* * *

 _# # #_

Late August 1978, SFSU

"I could've sworn you didn't have this much stuff at the Center," Joe said.

Balancing carefully on his crutches, Frank Hardy only hauled his suitcase into the elevator. Classes started this week, so today he was moving into his on-campus space. With the brothers being transfers from Bayport Community, Frank sort-of a sophomore due to their on-again-off-again part-time status there and Joe technically a freshman, and with both having legitimate residency in San Francisco, SFSU's bureaucracy had finally surrendered. As a result, Joe had been allowed to choose the first-time freshman halls "if he wanted", and Frank the luxuries of the upper-classmen's University Park buildings.

After the CIA fiasco in NYC, Joe did not want to leave the relative security of the Center. Frank, though, had taken an apartment in University Park North, planning to split his time between that and the Center as needed. He'd reasoned it'd be a handy crash-space, in case his and Joe's schedules got too hectic, and the thought of having to maneuver San Francisco's Muni system on crutches was not pleasant. The cast on Frank's broken shin - a souvenir of NYC - wouldn't be removed for a couple more weeks, and it'd be bad enough just trying to get around campus.

"Junk tends to breed," Kris Mountainhawk said, her arms full of thick blankets and comforters. Their boss Joshua, Dad, and Kris's adoptive mother Mar were helping, too, but they were still down in the parking lot. "Even Frank's junk."

The elevator dinged and opened on a hallway filled with other students and the smells of popcorn, heavy incense, and bleach. Kris carried her armload out, leaving Frank and Joe standing there.

Joe started to grin. "Did she _really_ just say what —"

" _Don't say it."_

"I won't," Joe said, as Frank hauled the suitcase out of the elevator, "but I'm thinking it. Loudly."

Kris was Frank and Joe's unofficially-adopted kid-sister and tagalong, a small, mousy blonde who'd been their next door neighbor back in Bayport and who'd become a combination of teacher and spooky-stuff troublemaker since the brothers had come out to San Francisco. Frank and his brother were opposites in everything, save a love of mysteries and a knack for getting into trouble, and their clothing reflected that today. Frank was the clean-cut, prep-school jock in pressed khaki slacks and a button-down-collar blue shirt, but Joe was casual through and through, with longer hair, a leaner frame, faded jeans, and a red sweatshirt, though the "casual" was offset by Joe's crutch and the dark scars ringing his neck.

Surreptitiously, Frank glanced at Joe to see how he managed, since Joe had been using a crutch for months. Joe only had a single half-full duffle bag slung over one shoulder.

"Something wrong?" Joe said.

"I'm on _two_ of these things," Frank said, scowling. "How'd I get stuck with the heavier load?"

"It's a dirty job," Joe said, getting out of range of crutch, throw, and mock-swipe, "but somebody has to do it."

Rolling his eyes, Frank picked his suitcase back up and got re-balanced; by that point, Joe was halfway down the corridor. As Frank maneuvered through the milling people, he nodded at his soon-to-be neighbors while trying not to stare at the ones sporting spiked mohawks in every shade of the rainbow and safety pins in noses and ears. Without comment, Frank caught up with Kris and Joe, and, setting the suitcase down, unlocked the door of his new apartment.

Frank had expected institutional concrete, rundown from heavy student use. Instead, it looked like a typical flat in any urban apartment building: wood-paneled walls, orange-brown shag carpet, a small kitchen to his immediate right, and a spacious living/dining area with sliding glass doors open onto a small patio and letting in the fresh breeze — Frank blinked at that. His new roommate was here already?

"About time you got here, roomie," said a familiar voice from the apartment hallway, and all three of them turned.

" _Chet?!"_ Joe said.

"The one and only." A roly-poly guy with curly brown hair and glasses, Chet Morton grinned at them. "Moved in Saturday. Ma and Pa decided to do a vacation out here and combined it with settling me in. We wanted to visit, but Ma lost the phone number and we couldn't find that place you're in. So I decided to surprise you."

"But…" Censoring his immediate thoughts, Frank settled on, "You're going to SFSU? I thought you were sticking with Bayport Community."

"Culinary school, my dear fellow," Chet said loftily. "Food service management. Me and food — it's a natural."

"You can say that again," Joe said.

Chet had been one of the few people who hadn't pressed for details of New Orleans, who hadn't gawked at Joe's scars, and whom Frank and Joe had trusted with most of the real story — as close to the truth as they could manage without sounding like _Ripley's Believe It Or Not,_ anyway. But after NYC, neither Frank nor Joe wanted to expose any of their friends to possible CIA targeting; the only person in Bayport who knew that full story was Dad.

"You guys are going here," Chet was saying, "and I knew Kris was out here, so I told Ma that meant Mar could keep an eye on me, too. Plus the scholarship, so Pa decided it was a no-brainer."

"Scholarship?" Frank was still trying to wrap his mind around _Chet, SFSU_ , and _roommate_. _Scholarship_ didn't come anywhere near the same sentence.

"Boston Culinary Association." Chet sounded smug. "Earned it fair and square. Pays half the expenses, as long as I major in something to do with food or business. Lots cheaper than BCC. And since I'm a transfer, they let me have upper class housing. Er…something wrong?"

Slowly Frank shook his head. This had too much potential to blow up in their faces. "Just surprised, that's all."

"Good," Chet said. "You guys need me to keep you out of trouble."

That was the last thing they needed. Unsure how to answer that without lying through his teeth, Frank settled for hauling his suitcase back to the bedrooms.

"I took the front bedroom," Chet called after him. "I figured you'd want the back. More quiet there."

Frank didn't answer. The bedroom in question looked clean, though the bed's mattress was softer than what he was used to, but he'd adapt. The rest of the room wasn't anything special: beige stucco walls, orange shag carpet, standard sliding-door closet with a full-length mirror on one door, a institutional metal desk. He'd left the big oak desk back at the Center, until he could get a look at what the standard student furnishings were, but if Chet was going to be his roommate, better to leave the desk right where it was. Frank would need his room at the Center more than he'd thought he would.

Kris slipped into the room and set her armload of blankets on the bed. "No, big brother. The Association didn't do it. _Shimá_ says so. And he isn't." Kris ducked her head at Frank's look. "Um…you got kinda loud. Almost as loud as Joe."

" _Shimá"_ was the Navajo word for "mother". Kris was a jack, with a touch of several Gifts, including telepathy; Mar was a pure 'path. Being able to talk mind-to-mind had its advantages, not that Frank ever wanted any of the Gifts, period.

Frank sighed. "I'm worried this is another one of his hobbies and he'll be stuck here for the year before he can get back home."

"We could meet him up with Godzilla."

Godzilla was Joshua's mate and a chef at Burn The Tail, one of the city's best Japanese restaurants. Godz wasn't Gifted, not in the way the Association defined the term, but he definitely worked magic in the kitchen. If anyone could poke holes in Chet's culinary fantasy, Godzilla could. "Good plan," Frank said. "If Chet doesn't freak about the whole Castro thing, anyway."

Chet's parents were typical small-town-New-England farm-folk in lifestyle and attitudes. Frank didn't know if Chet shared his parents' views, but Frank didn't want to subject Joshua or Godzilla to it if Chet did. The commander for the Association's Blades in the western US, Joshua Thomas was Frank and Joe's boss, but still a good friend.

"If he can't handle San Francisco," Kris said, "he shouldn't have come out here."

At that point, Chet poked his head in the doorway. "Talking behind my back already?"

"We were talking about which restaurant to introduce you to first," Frank said. Technically true, for a stretched-out value of _truth_. "You're going to gain twenty pounds in your first week here."

"You'll walk it all off," Kris said.

"That was the other reason I wanted to come out here. Hearing you guys talk about the food, I mean. And you told me you're friends with a chef." Chet grinned. "It's all about connections."

That was Chet all over, with his ever-changing hobbies and fancies. He always wanted the easy way, and the moment reality kicked in and actual work reared its head, the hobby would get dropped for something else shiny and new. Frank kept his sigh strictly internal: he really didn't want to be on the receiving end of Chet's gripes if — when — Chet realized the cooking thing involved actual work.

"Don't count on that." Joe squeezed past Chet to deposit the duffle bag on the floor. "Godzilla's real tough-minded about food. If you don't measure up, nothing we say'll make a difference."

"Godzilla?"

"He's a monster-movie fanatic," Kris said. "Rubber-suit Japanese things."

"So where are you at?" Chet said to Joe. "Freshman dorms?"

Joe hesitated. "Off-campus," he said finally. "Mar jump-claimed us for residency and they weren't about to argue with her."

"We're working with a local detective agency," Frank said, with a warning glance at Joe. "Getting ahead on the work requirement thing. We figured having two places to crash would help if the schedules got too crazy."

"Like I said, it's all about connections," Chet said.

"They earned it fair and square, Chet," Kris said firmly, as Frank opened his mouth. "The hard way. _Shimá_ had nothing to do with it. Josh doesn't hire _connections._ "

Chet didn't look convinced. "Uh…yeah. Right. You mentioned dinner?"

"My vote's for _sashimi_ ," Joe said to Frank, with just the bare hint of a grin. "And _akachan no tako_ with tempura _ika_."

Frank managed to keep his face straight. Raw slices of fish, grilled baby octopus, and squid: a guaranteed horror show for any newbie to Japanese cuisine. He and Joe had developed bad addictions for the stuff, but it wasn't for beginners. "My treat, then," Frank said. "Since you and Tag are helping with the move."

Now Chet was looking from Frank to Joe with open confusion.

"I'll go let _Shimá_ know," Kris said. "She and your dad might head somewhere else. Josh, too?"

"Definitely," Frank said. "Kill all the birds with one stone."

"Your dad's here?" Chet said.

Frank hesitated. "He wanted to make sure we didn't have trouble." The least painful explanation.

Thankfully, Chet didn't push it. "For that, I'll help the load-in, too. I'm hungry enough to eat a cow raw."

Frank and Joe looked at each other.

"Don't worry," Joe said, his grin breaking loose. "Raw cow is the _last_ thing we're thinking of."


	2. Feathers

**_A/N: Thanks for all the comments, reviews, & favorites, and Happy New Year!  
_**

 ** _# # #_**

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

 _December 1978_

"You're not really wearing _that_ ,"Jamie said. _"Please_ tell me you're not wearing that. Please, please, _please?"_

Confused, Joe looked down at himself. White dress-shirt striped with brown, beige corduroy slacks and beige dress jacket: perfectly acceptable for an evening out. It was comfortable, allowed for freedom of movement, didn't wrinkle too badly with his crutch, and — most important — kept him low-key and un-noticed. "Not wearing _what?_ "

His girlfriend, Jamie, had wanted to go out, claiming her new art project was "exposing the underbelly of the local club scene", which Joe had translated as Jamie-speak for "bar crawl". How she'd talked him into it, he wasn't sure. Clubs weren't for staying low-key.

"Us Evil Overlords can't have our apprentices looking like a Sears catalog reject." Jamie eyed him. "From the Sixties."

Joe scowled.

"The Fifties," Jamie amended. "Or maybe the Forties. But I don't think they had corduroy then."

"I just got this stuff last year!"

" _You_ bought that stuff?"

Telling lies was never a good idea around the Center, especially with a 'path like Jamie. Joe hesitated, then chickened out. "Frank was there, too."

"You let your _brother_ do your clothes-shopping?"

"Well, no…I mean, Aunt Gertrude —"

"A- _ha!_ Oh, no, my lovely Fluffy Minion. You don't deserve the fashion sense of your dowager aunt. We're detouring."

That wasn't fair. Aunt Gertrude had let him choose the clothes, after all. Mostly, anyway. "Babe, c'mon, we're just going to a bar. No one's going to care."

Arms crossed, Jamie gave him her _I-can't-believe-you-just-said-that_ scowl, her golden hair falling down over one eye. Dressed in black satin tights and a shimmery gold-lamé wrap, she looked like an escapee from _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_ who'd wandered into _Saturday Night Fever_. Maybe she had a point.

"They'll be looking at you, anyway." Joe turned up his wide-eyed pathetic-puppy act. That usually ended the argument. "Not me."

"Why?" Hands spread in supplication, Jamie looked at the ceiling. "Of all the devastatingly-cute Fluffy Minions, I had to fall in love with the one with absolutely _no_ fashion sense. _Why_ , I ask you, _why?"_

"You're supposed to say you'd love me even if I wasn't wearing anything at all."

"Ooohhh, don't tempt me."

Mission accomplished. With a lopsided smile, Joe leaned in to kiss her.

"Ah-ah-ah." Waggling a finger, Jamie sidestepped him. "My Conquering of The Castro can wait. It's time I introduced you to exciting new possibilities, my lovely Minion."

Ignoring his protests, she herded him out the door and to the junker lot, the cars that the Center owned that anyone living there could use, as long as they filled up the gas tank when done. As they crossed the gravel, the wind picked up, rustling the grass and branches. Joe looked around uneasily, surveying the road, trees, and landscape, focusing on every unusual shadow and odd shape. No one watching — that he could see, anyway: important point. He headed for the driver's side door.

"Oh no, you don't." Jamie grabbed the door handle, making shoo-ing motions. "You're not going to undermine my evil plot. I drive."

Joe hesitated. She didn't know how to avoid possible tails, or even how to spot them.

"What, you don't trust me?"

That wasn't the problem. Mouth clamped shut, Joe limped to the passenger side and eased into the pleather seat with a sigh. Already his calves and back ached: not a good sign. As Jamie backed the car out of the lot and headed towards the Bay Bridge, Joe kept his attention on the side mirror. Nothing behind them, as far as he could tell. Yet.

"What's so interesting?" Jamie said.

"I thought…" Joe hesitated. "Nothing."

After they crossed the bridge with no sign of tails and Jamie maneuvered through Friday-night traffic, Joe relaxed a little, settling back to watch the passing streets. They were safe, for the moment.

San Francisco never ceased to amaze him _._ Buildings were painted every possible hue; the city wasn't filled with towering skyscrapers, but felt open and wide under the sky and cradled by the ocean and Bay, and Christmas lights were everywhere — and Joe had thought _Boston_ went overboard with its displays. Here, with all the vibrant and out-spoken nationalities, cultures, and religions, the light displays could probably be seen from Mars.

The Haight-Ashbury district was no exception. Glitter, glam, garland, lights, and tinsel were out in overwhelming force, out-flanking good taste and restraint at every possible turn. Joe tried to figure out what a brontosaurus wrapped in blue lights had to do with Christmas…and the set of plastic legs in green fishnets and red high-heels…and the trio of day-glo mushrooms puffing out red fog…and the mannikins wearing lamé jumpsuits and glittery spandex draped in hot-pink tinsel…and the window display stacked head to sill with carnival-glass hookahs…and…Joe stopped.

Jamie was steering him towards the lamé-jumpsuit mannikins.

"Oh no," Joe said. _"No."_

"Ye of little faith. That's just to lure the tourists in. _Move."_

The way she held his arm meant resisting would result in one of them tumbling to the sidewalk. With his crutch, Joe was certain it wouldn't be Jamie. With a sigh, Joe gave up and let her steer him into the store.

Racks of satin, lamé, rhinestone, leather, sequins, and spandex glittered and gleamed in every impossible color, and too many of those colors were in the same garment. The walls were crammed with painted mirrors and velvet black-light posters, while satin scarves, ties, bead curtains, and tie-dyed banners cascaded from the ceiling. Blinking, Joe tried to make sense of the overwhelming influx — then jumped when part of the rabid chaos moved.

The chubby patch of red and purple spandex jabbed its finger at Joe. "Pink. Definitely pink."

"Um," Joe said.

"We can start there," Jamie said brightly. "But I'd like to stick with things that won't get him indecently assaulted."

" _Jamie!"_ The red-and-purple spandex came out from behind the counter and hugged her — too enthusiastically for Joe's liking. "This your latest conquest? What _have_ you been doing with yourself? It's been _ages!_ "

"Conquest," Joe said carefully. His hands were clenched around his crutch, ready to whip it around and strike — Joe forced himself to relax his grip. No self-respecting government agent would dress like that. On top of everything else, the man wore golden granny glasses with purple lenses, complete with a red-satin ball cap.

"You're giving away my plot." Jamie wrapped her arm around Joe's waist. "He may look like a Naive Farm Boy, but he seduced my Evil Overlordship to the Light Side of the Force. Joe, Richard. Richard, Joe."

"Pleasure's all mine," Richard said.

"No pink," Joe said firmly.

Jamie gave him one of her hormone-percolating smiles. "Don't knock it until you try it, my lovely minion. Go on, Richard. He's all yours."

Joe didn't want to be _all anybody's_ , but he didn't want a fight, either. Not here, not where it could draw unwanted attention. He held his peace, and a couple hours of wardrobe experimentation later, he limped back out onto the sidewalk, feeling more exposed than if he _had_ stripped to the skin.

The red silk shirt was fine — loose-fitting, threaded with silver, and open to mid-chest despite his scars and the chill — but the thin black-leather pants felt spray-painted on, showing every curve of leg and muscle. He had drawn the line on his crutch, though. No matter what Jamie thought, Joe had to get around campus. Glitter and goldfish did _not_ fit with that program.

"You look hot." Jamie snuggled against him as they walked back to the car. "Totally, massively _hot."_

The phoenix tattoo covered most of the scars on Joe's torso, but it did nothing for the rope-scars around his neck, nor his twisted left hand, nor his limp. All the rest was covered by his clothes, but Joe knew they were there: the white razor lines, the wrinkled skin of burns, the thick scars at his ankles. There was nothing hot about any of it. Nothing.

"Joe?"

They were at the car, parked on one of the turned to face Jamie directly. "Maybe I don't want to be hot."

"Why do you — no. _No._ I'm not letting you get away with _that,_ either. It's time you got over this nonsense."

" _Nonsense?!"_

"Yes, _nonsense!_ You're _not_ a _pathetic cripple._ You don't need to act —"

"I _do_ 'need to'. That little fiasco in New York, remember? I _need_ to blend in. _Not_ prance around like a…a…disco _troll!"_

"You are blending in. You're dressed like everyone else. No one'll pay any attention to you. Not the way you mean, anyway." Jamie popped the trunk, tossed the shopping bags in, then slammed the trunk closed. "Come on."

Joe didn't move.

"I've got the keys." Jamie dangled them in front of Joe's face. "You can stay here and freeze and be _really_ obvious to all the guys cruising for a pickup, or you can come have fun blending in, in a nice warm club."

"I thought we were going to the Castro."

"I changed my mind. The I-Beam's just up the street."

For the first time, Joe wavered. "The I-Beam?"

The I-Beam had a rep. It had _several_ reps, any of which would've landed Aunt Gertrude in the hospital from major conniption-induced heart attacks. But one of those reps was the _High Church of R &B Disco_ _of San Francisco_ — which meant guaranteed awesome music.

"Tower of Power's playing," Jamie said. "Or maybe Sylvester. I forget, exactly. Someone is, anyway."

At that point, the breeze picked up, and finally Joe gave in. December in San Francisco meant no snow, but it was still chilly, with the wind either off the Bay or off the ocean. Thin leather and silk weren't good for keeping warm out on the street, especially since Jamie had locked Joe's jacket in the trunk, too.

The club entrance didn't look like much: no marquee, no neon, only a windowless black door with a painted wooden sign announcing "I-BEAM ENTRANCE" nailed above it and sandwiched between a shabby antique shop and a ticket booth next door.

But the _music_ …

Even out on the street, it thumped and pounded, rock-heavy, sultry, and funky. Inside, the temperature went from _Thank-God-It's-Warm_ to _Oh-My-God-Where's-The-AC_ just a few steps inside the door. But Joe didn't notice that at first. His ears were telling him that the club had gone all out with the absolute best sound-system possible. And the _music:_ _Boogie Up Rock Down_ into _Crazy Train_ into something that sounded like Kool & the Gang that cross-mixed, reversed, and scratched into fragments of _What a Fool Believes, then_ beat-mixed into _Y.M.C.A.,_ fading into tinkly xylophones before the beat suddenly kicked up into raucous punk.

The DJ was either certifiably insane or a freakin' _genius._

Jamie leaned close. "Are you going to dance or just stand there looking unbearably sexy?"

Joe looked at her. In New Orleans, Thatcher had not only ruined Joe's tendons and muscles, but had also hit Joe's spine with magic. Joe had gotten some flexibility back, but dancing in that jiggling, jumping, gyrating crowd was asking for trouble.

Rolling her eyes, Jamie had the crutch in hand before Joe could protest, and she disappeared into the crowd, leaving him on the edge of the dance floor. Joe grabbed the nearby railing for balance — at least there was plenty to watch. Even without mage-Sight, energy glowed over the crowd and pounded from the speakers, throbbing at the edge of visible range in hot reds and brilliant oranges touched with gold, making the haze of pot-and-cigarette smoke glow like the alien ship from _Close Encounters_. Many of the dancers bounced in unison, and quite a few of the men had their shirts off. Still, the women were wonderful to watch, especially when a brunette in a glittery green satin wrap looked him up and down with a slow, easy smile. She wasn't the only one, either.

Joe felt his tension loosen under those appreciative gazes. The brunette was rather pretty, though a bit old for this crowd, and her breasts jiggled wonderfully. No bra. Definitely no bra. Joe smiled back…

…as the woman reached down the front of her dress, pulled out one of her breasts, bounced it twice on the floor, caught it handily and tucked it back into her — his — breast cups, all in time with the music.

Right. _Those_ reps.

Someone nudged Joe from behind. When Joe turned, Jamie handed him a paper cup of orange juice, leaning in close to be heard over the music. "The bartender'll look after the crutch."

Sweating — the club definitely had the heat set too high — Joe gulped half of the juice before a strong alcohol bite hit the back of his throat. He spluttered, yet somehow recovered enough to gasp out, "What _is_ that?"

"White wine and juice. You okay?"

Nodding, Joe downed the rest. It was good; it was more than good.

Jamie leaned in close again. "Dance with me."

Joe glanced at the dance floor. He hadn't thought the Hustle involved _that_ much hip movement, and it was the least acrobatic dance he was seeing. He wasn't certain he could manage that.

Before he could say anything, though, Jamie had pulled him out onto the floor. "Rising Sun form," she breathed in his ear, "my lovely Phoenix."

Between the alcohol and the thick smoke, Joe's head was buzzing. The music slowed to sultry and funky — the DJ announced it as "Prince" — and with a heavy-lidded smile, Jamie started the first moves.

The pace she set slowed the Tai-Chi _kata_ by half, yet matched the beat, turning it into an exotic, flowing version of the "Robot" as they mirrored each other's moves. All through it, Jamie moved in closer, and closer, until she and Joe weren't so much dancing as swaying, hips teasing and barely touching. His eyes half-closed, Joe breathed in her heat and scent, just…being…feeling… _enjoying_ this, here, now _…_

"Y'know," Jamie murmured in his ear, as her hands roamed his chest, "the original name of Rising Sun Form was Phoenix Shining Over The Horizon."

He opened his eyes to stare down into hers, glittering in the lights, bright green to his hazel. God, she was beautiful…and he felt so, so…

She pulled his head down to brush his lips with hers, then started unbuttoning Joe's shirt. "Display your pretty feathers. Show off my lovely, handsome Phoenix to all these people."

Joe grabbed her wrists. " _No."_

She chuckled deep in her throat. "Look around you. Most the guys here have theirs off already."

"Then take _yours_ off. Most of those guys won't care." The women probably would, though Joe wasn't about to say that.

"But the cops do." Grinning, Jamie slid her hands back under Joe's shirt to caress his chest. "Unfortunately, it's illegal for my Evil Overlordship to display my assets like that. You, however…"

Well, all the men Joe could see did have their shirts off, waving them over their heads in time with the beat. And it was over-warm in here, Joe was sweating, and Jamie was giggling as she undid his shirt, swaying against his hips without — quite — grinding against him. Finally Jamie slipped the last button loose and slid Joe's shirt from his shoulders.

Even over the thumping music, Joe heard appreciative hoots and whistles. Her hands around his waist, Jamie nuzzled his neck, then bent his head down for a lengthy, involved kiss that had Joe wanting to pull her to the floor right then and there. Instead — with all the confusion of disco lights and bodies, no one would notice — Joe closed his eyes, lost himself in her feel and warmth as he pulled in just a bit of the wild energy, just a touch.

"Ohhhh, nice," Jamie breathed, caressing the phoenix tattoo, a blaze of color spread over Joe's chest, stomach, and back — and now glowing just enough to be noticeable.

"Mind if I cut in?" Deep voice, behind Joe, right in his ear.

Startled, Joe turned: the breast-bouncer.

Jamie doubled over laughing as the man started an enthusiastic version of the Bump with Joe, to the cheers and war-whoops of nearby dancers. Joe grabbed the man's shoulder for balance — he did not want to fall flat on his butt — though, grinning, the man didn't take things any further than the hip-bumps, complete with timed bounces of whatever rubber-thing filled his breast cups.

"You're straight, honey, I can tell," the man said to Joe, in between bumps. "I'll be gentle. I just want to know — who _did_ that for you?"

"Talk to her." Joe nodded towards Jamie. "She designed it."

Still giggling, Jamie stumbled towards the edge of the dance floor and snagged one of the club staff, then came back with a marker in hand. "May I?"

The man held out his arm and Jamie scrawled out her name and phone number on his skin. He cocked his head to read it. "Jamie _Hollis?_ Like, _MoMA?"_

Jamie only grinned.

"Gorgeous, you are one lucky guy," the man said to Joe. "And you, girl," that to Jamie, "park yourself here. Because when I flash this around, you're going to get mobbed. Especially with stuff like _that."_ He nodded at Joe's tattoo, then sashayed away into the crowd.

Aware of the press of people around him, and the continued stares, studying gazes, and smiles, Joe stood there, unsure how to react. That had been totally unexpected, but — he had to admit it — definitely gratifying.

The music kicked up, an insane high-energy _Le Freak_ beat-mixed into _You're The One That I Want_ with blips of _Signed Sealed Delivered_. Giggling, Jamie pulled Joe against her in a full-contact grind, and he had to grip her shoulders hard to stay on his feet — not that he minded. Not caring about crowd, laughter, or encouraging hoots, Joe pulled her into an intense, damn-near-making-out kiss —

Something caught his eye: a sense of stillness in all the gyrating, grinding, acrobatic funk.

Joe looked up.

Eye-contact — the other man hurriedly looked away. That was odd. Joe turned his apparent attention back to Jamie, but kept a covert eye on the man. White, maybe mid-thirties — hard to tell in the club's lighting — moussed-to-an-inch-of-its-life wavy hair mimicking Barry Gibb, right down to a thick mustache with a life of its own, and here, in this over-heated mess of satin, sequins, lamé, and leather, the man wore a polyester disco-troll suit. It was muted yellow and black, not white, but it might as well have been a spotlight.

Joe kept his eye on the man, who now apparently watched the dancers. He kept glancing at Joe, then away before the glance settled.

"Joe?"

He looked at Jamie, then back in time to catch the man watching him again. In the strobing, flashing, sparkling swirl of disco-lights, Joe couldn't tell if the man was Gifted or not, but he kept catching glimpses of something that _might_ have been a mage-aura.

Or not…

"Joe…"

Shaking his head, Joe pulled Jamie under his arm and further into the crowd, leaning on her for support as he pushed through the dancers and limped towards the far wall. The chaos of lights and gyrating dancers should keep them covered. "We're leaving," he said in her ear. "Now."

Frowning, Jamie glanced back, and Joe pulled her against him to help the contact, trying to project his alarm over the watcher. Jamie could read him; it'd been getting stronger ever since NYC. Joe didn't mind. He _wanted_ that connection, and he suspected it was becoming two-way, but the last thing he wanted was Jamie in the line of fire. If the CIA wanted revenge over NYC, if they decided to strike now…

No. He would not let it happen.

With another glance back, Jamie helped him back into his shirt and slipped her arm around his waist. "This way. I've got an idea."

Joe let her take the lead — she knew the club scene, he didn't. Right at the exit, Jamie stopped to talk to a burly, bald man in a black t-shirt emblazoned with _I-BEAM._ "We're leaving. Someone's trying to start trouble with us." Jamie smiled, this time not to dazzle, just being friendly. "I don't suppose you could delay him a bit…? If he tries to…y'know…"

The bouncer glanced back into the club. "Who?"

"Don't know his name." Joe slipped the man a twenty; he deserved more, but it was the largest bill Joe had on him. "Older guy. Thirties. Looks like a Barry Gibb rip-off."

"Whole herds of esters died for his suit," Jamie added. "Yellow ones."

Cracking a smile, the bouncer nodded. "Got it. Scoot."

Out on the street, Jamie slowed to a casual stroll. Joe wanted to go _faster._ He wanted out of here. He wanted to be at the car and away from here before the man or any potential back-up realized the prey had slipped the trap. But without his crutch, Joe was limited to Jamie's pace. His balance had gotten a lot better over the past few months, but upping his walking pace to anything past _staggering-lurch_ was a guaranteed header into the concrete.

"Easy," Jamie said. "We're on a public street. He can't do much out here."

"I'm worried he won't realize that." Joe glanced around, studying anyone who looked as if they had more than a passing interest in him — which was just about everyone. Too many people — men and women — gave him thorough once-overs…and twice-overs…and not-so-quiet wolf whistles…and lengthy stares at his butt and crotch, despite his limp. It was supposed to be flattering, but Joe shifted uncomfortably, wishing the leather pants weren't quite so tight.

Jamie was giggling again.

"I'm glad I'm so amusing," Joe said dryly. Why had they parked all the way over on Oak Street? It hadn't seemed that far walking in.

About halfway down Cole Street, headed for the Panhandle, Joe glanced back. Just at the corner of Haight was a throng of drunk and rowdy club-goers, and at the edge of the group stood someone in a yellow suit, who stepped back down Haight and out of sight before Joe got more than a glimpse.

"Settle down," Jamie said. "If I go any faster, you'll end up face down on the sidewalk."

Finally they crossed Oak Street and got to the junker. Bracing against the car to lever himself down, Joe checked it over: tailpipe, tire wells, just under the frame along the doors and the bumpers. Nothing had been attached, that he could tell.

"I know the Blades encourage paranoia, but it _is_ chilly out here," Jamie said.

Joe glared up. " _Healthy_ paranoia. As in, I'd like to _stay_ healthy."

"Why would anyone bother coming all this way to do something they could've easily done long before this?" Ignoring his glare, Jamie unlocked the driver door. "Especially since the junkers sit in that nice tree-shaded lot right outside the Center."

"If they attached a trace —"

"I'm pretty sure the feds know where the Center is, by now." Jamie put her elbows on the car roof, smiling across at him. "They don't need to put a trace on you if they know exactly where you're going to be."

There was an answer to that. There had to be. But Joe was too keyed-up to think of it at the moment. Gritting his teeth, he swallowed his irritation and got in. He didn't want a fight, not with Jamie, not when they were supposed to be having a fun night out.

"So," Jamie slid into the driver's seat, "since whoever they are knows where we're likely going, there's no real reason for us to move right away, right?"

Joe only looked at her. He wasn't going to say it.

But Jamie leaned over the gear shift, her warm hands sliding up his chest and under his shirt against his chilled skin. Joe's breath caught as Jamie's lips touched his, breathing soft, warm words against his face.

"So, my lovely Phoenix, I say we give them something to _watch…"_


	3. Broken

_**A/N: Hey everyone! Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, & follows! Happy New Year!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Kris scowled at the papers and books spread out on the coffee table. She wanted to do this back in her study area, where there wouldn't be any people-interruptions, but a seven-month-old kitten was a guaranteed _bigger_ interruption, especially when little Shell claimed all feet as her special pounce-toys. Papers, pens, books, and three humans spread out over her floor while trying to organize their research project were guaranteed kitten-attractors. Frank's on-campus place was out — she definitely didn't want to deal with Chet and his latest hobby, either.

The creak of Frank and Joe's hall-door made Kris look up, in time to scramble to her feet and grab two more kittens — the tuxedo twins of Momma Moggie's litter last June — before they darted through the archway and out onto the potentially dangerous landing overlooking the commons. _"Frank!"_

Frank barely avoided tripping over Kris as she struggled with two squirming kittens who were not happy at being denied their freedom and were letting the whole Center know it with squeaky yowls. Finally Frank dropped his books onto the armchair and took one of the kittens from her. It latched onto Frank's wrist and started to gnaw. " _Ow —_ Purr-oh, stop it! _"_

"I call a play date," Kris said. "They can keep Shell busy and she'll keep _them_ busy until they all crash."

"Or until they burst your waterbed again."

"I've got the quilts on it," Kris said. That particular lesson in kitten-care had been a soggy mess, luckily confined to the waterbed frame-liner and one unhappy, squeaking kitten.

"Too bad Joe missed that fiasco," Frank said, as he sat down and pulled a pile of books over. "He's still talking about getting one of those."

"He'd never use it. I mean, he's always in Jamie's — what?"

Grinning, Frank shook his head. "Your mind's in the gutter today, Tag."

Mewing pathetically, Purr-oh clambered up onto Frank's shoulder. The kitten's name was Joe's fault: the little tuxedo had a black mark under his nose like a mustache, Joe claimed the kitten looked like Agatha Christie's fastidious detective, and _Poirot_ had devolved into _Purr-oh_ within seconds. The second tuxedo escaped _Marple_ by also being male, but _Frito_ had stuck after the kitten pounced on a pile of chip bags, the resulting crash-crackle-pop scaring all three kittens into scrambling, unable-to-get-purchase-on-the-floor hysterics.

Rolling her eyes, Kris took Purr-oh from Frank and, both kittens in her arms, headed back to her room, first cracking the hall door open enough to make sure Shell wasn't behind it before slipping through. Mar was working on getting a door added to the archway into the whole suite — they'd tried baby gates, only to learn that kittens _could_ jump that high, and putting two baby gates on top of each other encouraged enthusiastic climbing. Until the door was a reality, though, Kris, Frank and Joe had to keep the kittens confined to their rooms to prevent fights with the established Center cats, and it made a handy excuse to Chet for Frank's trips to the Center.

Kris dropped Purr-oh and Frito onto her bed just as Shell jumped up to check out the newcomers — the gray-and-black tabby's fur pattern reminded Kris of scallop shells — then all three kittens tumbled off to chase and pounce each other.

"We could lock them in Joe's room," Frank offered, as Kris came back out into the living room. "He's out with Jamie."

"You could always take them back to your place, too," Kris said, but Frank sighed.

"Chet's found out that they allow pets out there. He's talking about getting a black cat. For his 'familiar', he says."

Kris rubbed at her forehead. She shared a class with Frank and Joe this semester, _Myths & Legends of the Pan-Celtic Diaspora_, which gave them an excuse to meet on-campus for lunch between classes. Now the semester was wrapping up, and a good quarter of their grade in that class rested on this group project. Every time they thought they were done, they found something _else_ that absolutely had to be in the presentation.

Thankfully, Chet hadn't taken that class. However, he'd bumped into the growing San Francisco occult scene, stumbled onto a couple makeshift student groups who were too impressed by _The Golden Dawn,_ and had decided that he'd found the Ultimate Truth of the Universe. Kris wasn't worried about that, yet; once the allure of the silly robes, mystical chants, and weird symbols wore off, following the Golden Dawn was time-consuming _work._ But Chet had then spotted Kris's pentagram, somehow concluded that she was A Real Witch, and that Frank and Joe were also into Something Big that they wouldn't share and weren't talking about...

"I've been trying to talk him out of it," Frank was saying. "But you know Chet."

"Let him. After he does the litter box thing for a week —"

"Then he'll dump it on _me."_

"I'll adopt it, big brother," Kris assured him, as she shuffled through the papers to find their most recent outline and charts. "Josh says I'm already a crazy-cat-lady. One more won't hurt."

"Wow," said a voice from the archway — Rafe Hollen leaned there, eyeing the spread of books and papers. Stocky and muscled, with his wiry black hair slicked back in a tight tail, Rafe wore denim jeans with a white tank-top, with his leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His gaze moved from the papers to Kris, and his mouth quirked in that sly, cocky smile that made Kris's gut flip. "Lookin' good, _cielito."_

Oh gods. She did _not_ need this right now.

Rafe was the guitarist for the band Karma. Saying there was history between them was an understatement. With Vão Carvalo added in — the band's singer — it became _extreme_ understatement, along with extreme confusion, uncertainty, and a ton of other multi-syllable words added in.

Kris hadn't expected to see either of them again, not after the fiasco in Seattle. She had wanted to surprise Vão on his birthday by showing up backstage at their concert there, but her plan had backfired, painfully.

She clenched her jaw. It hurt. It _still_ hurt.

"Hey, Rafe." Frank sounded friendly, but Kris picked up a flash of something — irritation? That was unusual. Frank was such a quiet thinker that even Mar — Kris's adoptive mother and a strong 'path — rarely got more than a sense of presence from him, and his calm manner almost never broke.

There was history between Karma and Frank and Joe, too. _Owed_ history, in the red on Rafe and Vão's side, the same history that had crippled Joe. As far as Kris knew, the owing had never been paid back, but Frank and Joe didn't seem to care.

"You're corruptin' her the wrong way, _ese._ " Grinning, Rafe dropped into the other armchair and nudged the books with his foot. "We're tryin' to get her to loosen up, not tighten down."

"It's our semester project." Kris could smell the beer on Rafe's breath, even from her spot on the floor. "What do you _want,_ Rafe?"

"I just _said._ Vão's downstairs. We've got our bikes. Let's ride."

Kris felt her face get hot. Trust Rafe to make those two words a come-on. "I thought we broke up."

"We did?"

Frank was now scowling at Rafe; Kris didn't want to drag Frank into the middle of this at all. But how could Rafe _not_ know that being caught with other girls — _groupies_ , at that — was a problem?

Granted, Vão and Rafe hadn't known Kris would show up in Seattle. But seeing those heavily-made-up girls in skimpy tube tops draping themselves all over Rafe and Vão had still been a shock — and _girls_ was another major understatement. Worse, no one else, not the rest of the band, not the roadies, not the security, not the road managers, and certainly not Vão and Rafe, had seen anything wrong with it. Just part of the show, part of the scene, _boys will be boys._

It was all the horror stories of the runaways at Wings, all the horror she'd lived through with her original parents, all wrapped up in a giant tube of rancid cherry lip-gloss stinking of semen and cheap beer.

"Yes." Kris dropped her gaze to the papers. She would not break down. Not over this. "We did."

Rafe scowled. "News to us. You comin' or not?"

 _News to them?_ After she'd walked out in Seattle — what had they _thought_ she meant?

Frank laid his hand on her arm, and Kris caught a faint wisp of thought. _:Need help?:_

Frank wasn't Gifted, not in the ways the Association defined it, anyway. But Kris was a jack — a mix of many minor Gifts, save one. While her telepathy was weak, she could pick up nearby thoughts, and skin contact strengthened the connection. Emotional connections made it even stronger: Frank and Joe being her big-brothers-by-choice all these years guaranteed that she'd never be able to block them out. Ever since the CIA fiasco, Frank had been determined to wring every last advantage and application out of Joe's and Kris's Gifts that he could without being Gifted himself.

"Tag?" Frank said.

Kris shook her head. Her problem. She had to deal with it. "I'll be back."

"I'll look over everything and see what we can trim down. We can't finish it without Joe, anyway." Frank hesitated, then, another bit of thought, this one rock-solid and precise: _Let me know if you want legs broken._

"Watch out for my bookshelves." Kris got to her feet. "Shell's been getting up there. She likes pouncing."

Frank's mouth quirked, but she didn't hear his response, as Rafe draped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her out and down the hallway.

"Don't you ever stop working, _chica?"_ Rafe said. He smelled of warm leather, cheap beer, and wood smoke. When Kris tried to pull away, Rafe pulled her in tighter, making her stumble against him.

They were out on the landing overlooking the commons, with a good chunk of the Center's residents in ear- and eye-shot. Kris didn't want to make a scene. Rafe…well…was _Rafe Hollen,_ famous, personable, well-liked, and _popular._ People wouldn't be on Kris's side in any trouble, not with that against her.

The commons was Bay Area Center's common room and entry hall, a huge room with varnished hardwood floors and brick walls, lined with heavily-laden bookshelves and filled with battered tables, comfortable sofas covered in patchwork quilts and throws, and overstuffed floor cushions in a riot of colors. Some were putting up the initial winter decorations — garland, stockings, and lights strung around the railings and fireplace, a menorah in the biggest window — with kids and a few of the younger teens sprawled in front of the TV.

The girls squealed: someone had turned on _The Donny & Marie Show_. Kris made a face: it was _that_ re-run. Donny Osmond appeared on-screen, dressed like Luke Skywalker, and the girls squealed again.

"Cy's been after us to add something spacey to the show," Vão said, behind Kris; he'd freed himself from a chatty knot of people and come over. Vão was scrawny, black hair tangled around his face with a beak of a nose that made him look like a bird-mop, a 'Niners' sweatshirt with a denim jacket, bright red Nikes, and — blushing, Kris looked away. Vão's jeans were designer-tight, and there were definite things to look at. "We should show him that as a _hell no._ C'mon, let's blow this joint."

He tried to kiss her, but Kris pulled away. He hadn't even _asked_.

Vão was a 'path on the Empath side, and a strong one. He had to know something was wrong. He looked at her for a moment. "Rafe tell you about my new bike?"

"Too much for you to handle, Carvalo," Rafe said. "Let the big boys have the toys."

"So she gets to ride with me, after all?"

"Only to warm up." Rafe turned that sly grin on Kris. "Gotta thaw the Ice Queen somehow."

Kris stiffened, but held her peace. Jaw clenched, she followed them out the Center doors — mindful of the folks setting up the outside light display — and around to the gravel drive and the two motorcycles. She didn't know anything about 'cycles other than the obvious Harley-Davidson logos, but they looked fierce and raw, gleaming black, red and dusty chrome. Scuffing at the gravel, she hung back. Her heart pounded; her head ached; her breathing became shallow and short. She'd thought this was over and done with months ago. She didn't want a fight. Not here. Not with them.

"You check the flicks?" Rafe said to Vão. "Or we headin' up to Mount Tam?"

" _Watership Down's_ at the Castro." Vão grinned at Kris. "Right up your alley _._ About little fluffy bunnies. Seriously, though, ride with the street rat, _caro_ — I'm not used to riders yet."

" _Bunnies?"_ Rafe stared. "You're high, _ese._ "

"Shows how much you know. Those rabbits rip throats out. _"_ Vão cocked his head. "Kris?"

"C'mon, _cielito,_ hop on." Rafe patted the leather seat of his cycle. "Just like you — takes a good long while to warm up for a chilly ride."

Stomach churning, Kris didn't move. It was over. She'd made that plain in Seattle. _They'd_ made it plain. And insulting her like that? How could they even think that was okay? Somehow she managed to keep her voice even. "I'm not going."

"Here we go again," Vão muttered.

"Frank told you _go ahead,_ " Rafe said. "Jesus, _chica,_ cut loose for a change."

They really were that clueless? "Rafe…"

"She thinks we broke up with her," Rafe said to Vão.

"This is about Seattle." Vão's face was unreadable, and Kris couldn't pick up anything from him. Not good. "Why you walked."

Trembling, Kris crossed her arms to steady herself. She was an adult. She was a _Blade._ "I broke up with _you. Both_ of you."

"You walked, _chica,"_ Rafe said. _"_ You didn't say _nothin'._ "

"I didn't think I had to! You were with those girlsand you're making fun of me and you think it's _okay?"_

"We're just _teasing._ _Mierda_ , _chica,_ get a thicker skin."

Papa had always said that same thing whenever she'd cried. "What you really mean," Kris snapped, "is that you want to keep being a jerk."

"No, I mean you can't take a fuckin' joke!"

"Making fun of me ain't a _joke!"_

"Groupies," Vão broke in. "You're angry about _groupies."_

" _Girls."_

" _Groupies."_

"Like it matters," Rafe said. "Not like _you_ givin' us any."

That shocked her silent. Kris went hot, hands clenched.

"You lead us on and leave us hangin'," Rafe said. "Don't get mad at us for gettin' it elsewhere, _chicacita._ You don't give, we don't give. There. I'm not jokin' now. Happy? _"_

"Every rock band in the world has groupies," Vão said flatly. "Big deal. We take 'em up on what they're giving away and everyone has fun. Just because you're frigid —"

 _Frigid?_ Stunned at this line of attack, Kris backed up. "I'm not the one screwin' _kids!"_ With that, she stormed back into the Center, wanting to get back to her room where she could calm down, could _think_ …

But Vão had followed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her around to face him, right in the middle of the commons. "You little _bitch —_ _we don't mess with kids!_ "

Chatter, decorating, TV-watching, all stopped as everyone in the commons turned to watch the sudden show that had erupted in their midst. Kris could _feel_ the stares, the snickers, the head-shaking.

"Don't _ever_ say that," Vão snarled. "Don't you _dare_. Sex, drugs, rock and roll, yeah, it happens. But kids? _Not us._ Just because _you_ don't want sex. _You're_ the liar, girl. That boyfriend-girlfriend act of yours — you're one cold little —"

" _We broke up!_ What part of that don't you _get?"_ Yanking her arm free, Kris fled up the stairs. She couldn't think, couldn't hear anything but her pounding head and chest —

The hall door slammed open and Vão stalked through to halt just inside her room, Rafe right behind him.

"No, you don't get the easy out," Vão said. "We're settling this, girl. Now. Whether you want to or not."


	4. Explanation Complication

_**A/N: Happy New Year, everyone! Again, thanks for the reviews, comments, & favorites - you folks always make my day!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Ensconced with notebooks and folders spread on the coffee table and a cup of hot coffee, Frank had just settled into the written part of their project and started correcting Kris's spelling errors when the shouting started downstairs. Then Frank recognized Kris's voice — his and Joe's little tagalong — then Vão's, then Rafe's, and that brought Frank to his feet.

But before Frank could decide whether or not it needed his interference, Kris stormed back through the archway and to her hall, slamming the door behind her. Before Frank could react to _that_ , Vão and Rafe burst in, shoving Kris's hall door open and slamming through.

Muffled angry voices, then, loud and clear —

" _Get out!"_

"Calm down." Vão, with stiff patience. "You're getting way too emotional, girl."

" _We broke up!_ What part of that don't you _get?"_

" _Kris…"_

"You didn't say jack about it, _chicacita._ " Rafe.

" _I didn't think I had to! You had all those girls and you think I'm just —"_

"You on the rag or somethin'? You're jumpin' our shit just 'cause we got _groupies!"_

"We've gone over and over this, Kris," Vão said. The voices dipped back into muffled, angry unintelligibility, then flared back up. "So why the hell are you even _trying?_ That's what dating's _for!_ "

"For the last time," Kris's voice cracked, _"Get. Out. Of. My. Room!"_

That did it. With a deep breath, trying to ignore all of Dad's stories about domestic calls with NYPD, Frank pushed Kris's hall door open and went in.

He wasn't Gifted, but after everything over the past year, Frank had become sensitive to magic. Kris's heavy-duty wards were roiling, angry, and hot, scraping Frank's nerves and making his heart pound in reaction. _Someone_ was a heartbeat away from getting nailed.

The room door was open. Arms crossed, face tear-streaked, Kris stood in the middle of her study, Rafe and Vão facing her. All three startled when Frank stopped in the doorway.

"This is private, man," Vão said, from clenched teeth.

Frank glanced at Kris, who wiped at her eyes and looked away. "It stopped being private when I could hear you out there," Frank said. "She told you to leave. I'd listen to her."

"And we're tellin' you, _ese,_ butt out," Rafe snapped. "This ain't no business of yours."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank saw the hall door open. Best play distraction and keep the two idiots off-balance. Arms folded, Frank crossed into the room proper, shifting so that Rafe and Vão moved to face him, their backs to the door. "Well, I'm telling _you,_ she's _my_ sister. I'm _making_ it my business."

"And it just became _our_ business, because you tripped the wards." Joshua now stood in the doorway, along with Mar, Kris's adoptive mother, an older, weathered woman with graying hair. Joshua Thomas was the Blades' commander, a lean Black man in short dreads, a myriad of colors, and a carefully neutral expression. "Kris? Want them out?"

Still not looking at any of them, Kris nodded.

"You know the rules, darlin's," Joshua said as, scowling, Vão glared between Joshua and Frank. "We don't change 'em for so-called _celebrities_. She said out. You get out."

"What're you gonna do about it?" Rafe said. "I can match you any day of the week, _Butterfly_ , and he's _mundane —"_

Frank grit his teeth, but Joshua had already cut Rafe off. "You'd better take another look at that _mundane_ ,and realize what Vão's already thinking, _Rafael._ " Rafe stiffened, but Joshua bore on, relentless. "We've got you bracketed. You _might_ get through those shields Joe put on him — but you won't do it before he takes you down, and you'll be too busy dealing with _me_ to focus on _him_."

"And that's not including what I'll do to you," Mar said calmly.

Frank shifted his stance to settle his balance. Make that bracketed, out-flanked, and out-numbered. Hopefully the two idiots realized it and wouldn't push it.

Joshua caught Frank's gaze, nodded slightly, then re-focused on Vão and Rafe. "Now, if you two want to escalate this stupidity further, be my guest."

Tense, Frank kept his face neutral. While he trusted the shields Joe had put on him, Frank did not want to test them to destruction, not with two Gifted powerhouses as Rafe and Vão.

Shaking his head, Vão pushed past them and out the hallway.

"I hope you're happy, _chica_ , _"_ Rafe said to Kris. "One day you'll play the wrong guy and he won't take this crap —"

"Rafe," Frank said.

Rafe looked him up and down. "Yeah, you're a big man with Josh right there. Take me on solo, _puto_. Let's see who the big man is."

"I don't need to prove myself to bullies," Frank said, but with a rude, dismissive gesture, Rafe snorted and shoved past Joshua and Mar without another word.

"Pardon us for a bit, _chè,_ " Joshua said. "We're going to make sure they don't cause trouble on their way out. We'll be back."

Eyebrow raised, Mar glanced at Kris, then at Frank. Frank nodded, but waited until the door had shut behind them and the hallway was silent.

Wiping at her face, Kris stood unmoving in the middle of her study.

"Tag…" Frank said quietly, "…do you need a shoulder?"

The look she turned on him was so miserable, so ready to cry and struggling not to, that Frank didn't wait for her answer. He pulled her into a hug, big brother to unofficial-kid-sister.

Even with the warning, Kris still flinched, stiff and tense, then broke down into harsh, angry sobs that she struggled to choke back. Murmuring soothing nonsense, Frank rocked her and gradually worked his way over to the sofa so they could sit.

Skittering caught his attention. Frank looked towards the archway leading to Kris's bedroom in time to see the kittens scramble past. Hopefully they'd stay there.

"Sorry," Kris whispered. "I didn't mean to lose it."

"You needed to." Frank reached around to snag a box of tissues for her. "You've been putting up with those two for too long."

"That's not fair."

Frank said nothing.

"It's my fault, I mean." Kris stared fixedly at the floor. "They want to, but I don't — I mean, I kept telling them —"

"That's not how it works, Tag," Frank said gently. "If you don't want to, that ends it. If they want more, that's their problem, not yours." Hadn't Mar talked about stuff like this with her?

"You don't know — I mean —"

"So tell me what happened."

Bent over her lap, Kris sat there, her hands twisting the afghan. It was times like this that Frank was reminded how young she actually was. Kris was about Joe's age, but her original parents had been abusive SOBs who'd left her without a childhood and too much cold, brutal experience. To give her time to settle and himself to think, Frank got up to lock the door to her hallway.

When he came back, Kris's kitten, Shell, had insinuated herself onto Kris's lap. The little tabby purred loud enough to be heard from the doorway, arching against Kris's chest before settling down into a purring, kneading curl.

"There." Frank sat down carefully so he wouldn't disturb the kitten. "Josh and Mar'll know we're talking and they won't interrupt."

Kris's attention was now on Shell. She rubbed the kitten behind the ears and the kitten's already-impressive purr increased.

Frank leaned into Kris's line of sight. "Tag, come on. If you messed up somewhere, Joe and I explain things to you, remember? That's how us big brothers work. If you really were wrong, I'll tell you why, and I'll help you figure out how to apologize to them."

Not that he wanted to. He really wanted to go punch two arrogant rockers out. But that wouldn't help Kris, not now. First get her calmed down and thinking it through.

Frank thought back over what he'd heard. "You said you broke up. Seattle?"

Nodding, Kris pulled a tissue from the box to blow her nose.

He had to stay calm. Getting angry wouldn't help; she'd take it the wrong way. "You told us Vão hit you with a mic stand."

"It wasn't that." Sniffling, Kris gulped, wiped at her eyes again. "It wasn't, big brother. That was an accident, like I said."

"But something happened. Because you came home. And you were really upset. Nancy saw you ditching a lot of magazines with Karma on them."

"I —" Kris breathed out. "I mean…yeah. Before that, I mean. I surprised them. They didn't know I'd be there. But I know the NYC folks in their bodyguards and they let me backstage, before the soundcheck. And there were these _girls_ …and Vão and Rafe were all over them…"

"Groupies, you mean."

At that, Kris raised her head _._ " _Girls."_

"And how old are _you,_ Tag?"

"You sound like _them."_

Frank shook his head. "Not what I meant. There's kids at Wings who shock me every time they open their mouths. They act more like fifty, not fifteen. And you…" He hesitated, but there was no gentle way to say it. "You got involved with two guys, Tag. The way Josh talked, it was going on before New Orleans. Right?"

"We never — I mean, I never — I didn't —"

"That's your choice," Frank said gently. "Your body, your choice. I'm just saying you don't have the right to call them out over other girls doing the same thing _you_ did."

"But I _didn't_ do that! I mean — it just kinda happened."

"There's no such thing as _just kinda happened._ You know that."

She looked away, hands clenched.

How to explain this… "Right after you moved, Joe and I went to London to see Tony Eagle. Remember that?" It'd been the first time where Dad had let Frank and Joe do actual case-work instead of the scut-work. The brothers had not only uncovered a plot to kill Eagle, but had saved the life of the musician's sound engineer, and Eagle had given them tickets and backstage passes to his London show, complete with flight and hotel, as a reward.

Still not looking at Frank, Kris nodded.

"Dad didn't want us to go. He didn't want us exposed to that kind of thing. He didn't want us thinking it was somehow okay. And we didn't really understand why, until we saw it ourselves." That had been an ugly, eye-opening education, in more ways than one. "We thought Tony was okay. But we saw those groupies and…well. It happens, Tag. There's girls who do that, and guys take 'em up on it."

"So you're saying it's okay because everyone does it."

Frank shook his head. "You're dealing with guys, Tag. It's awfully hard to ignore that stuff. And they're surrounded by girls who do that all the time. It's what they're used to."

She'd gone red, hands clenching and unclenching as Shell meowed plaintively, reaching up with her paw to pat at Kris's face. "You sound like Papa. _It's the way men are._ There's nothing I can do. Expect the worst and just shut up and deal with it. _"_ Now Kris met Frank's gaze. "If this was murder we were talking about, someone who couldn't stop themselves would get locked away. But no, it's _just sex_ , so not being in control is somehow _okay."_

Frank glanced at the door, now wishing he'd left the door unlocked so Mar could come in and take over. He'd expected their little tagalong to recount whatever the fight had been about, figure out what went wrong, and fix it, not dive headlong into the morass of sexual morality and girl-boy stuff. He shifted, uncomfortable, uncertain. "It's not okay, Tag. I never said it was. It's just…it's complicated."

"Complicated." Kris looked away. "And what you're so carefully not saying — I got involved with two guys. So I don't have a right to gripe when I catch them with other women. I don't have a right to say no. I'm just a —"

" _No_. I didn't say that. You're not. I think —" Frank stopped himself, unsure what he'd meant.

But then Kris's head came up, her gaze a little unfocused: an expression Frank had learned to recognize with all the 'paths in the Center. "Um… _Shimá's_ asking us to come downstairs. I mean, you, at least."

Oh no. "Something wrong?"

"She's saying _Tell Frank he's got to see this_ and then she's laughing too hard to get anything else."

Thank God, a reprieve, however temporary. Frank wasn't going to argue. He helped Kris to her feet and made sure Shell and the tuxedo twins were safely distracted before heading out the door. The moment they crossed into the suite's living room, Frank heard loud whoops and wolf-whistles echoing from downstairs, noise that only got louder as they headed towards the commons, only for both of them to halt cold at the railing of the second-floor landing.

"Um," Kris said.

The commons was about a quarter full; Frank could see some of the other Blades scattered around, most grinning, and other residents — both male and female — whistling and cat-calling. Joshua stood in the center of the room, shaking his head, and next to him — okay — there was Jamie. Laughing and gesturing, she was easy to pick out in that gold lamé tunic-thing, and next to her…

That…was… _Joe?_ His _brother?!_

Leaning on Jamie for balance, Joe shifted from foot to foot, and Frank knew that wasn't what Joe had been wearing when he'd left with Jamie. Joe had left the Center in his beige suit and corduroy slacks, his usual date clothes. But now…a red silk shirt threaded in silver and open past mid-chest, with skin-tight leather pants that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

Whatever the conversation was about, it apparently needed a lot of gesticulating from Jamie and laughter from the nearest listeners — and then the _why_ became clear, as Jamie succeeded in getting Joe to take his shirt off. No big deal: Frank had seen Joe's phoenix tattoo in various stages during the creation process — but there Frank's thoughts clattered to a confused stop, because he'd never seen the tattoo _glow_ , silvery-golden glitter that teased the eye and was very, _very_ visible.

Great. Just great. They needed to stay low-key because of the whole CIA fiasco, and Joe had turned himself into a _disco ball._

The girls clustered around the TV squealed something in unison, and the common's stereo suddenly cranked up into " _Y.M.C.A."._ Someone mage-Gifted sent up a flashy shower of light-sparkles that filled the commons with disco rainbow-glitter.

"Um," Kris said. "Complicated?"

"Complicated," Frank said, and sighed.


	5. Assignment

"So," Joshua Thomas paused in the archway to the suite, his foot blocking a hyperactive kitten's dash for freedom, "how do you two feel about a trip to England before you go home for Winter break?"

At that, Joe looked up, as Frank got to his feet and took the kitten — Purr-oh, again — from Joshua. The brothers had been at the Bay Area Center long enough to know an offer like that would have major strings attached. But given the recent chaos, Joe should've been expecting it.

After all the drama that past Friday, it was a calm, quiet Sunday afternoon. He and Frank were finishing up their end-of-semester project for the Celtic mythology class — their only class together for Fall semester — tracing the roots of King Arthur legends to older Celtic myths, and it was due tomorrow. Both Frank and Joe were majoring in Criminology, but this particular class had sounded interesting, and since Kris was taking it, too, that gave them a handy excuse.

They were doing the work here, not at Frank's campus place. While Joe was happy to crash there if his schedule got too hectic, things had taken an unexpected turn with Chet.

Tossed into the non-conformist weirdness of San Francisco after living all his life in small-town conservative Bayport, Chet had breathed in the heady freedom of college life and had…well…gone nuts. Normally Chet's ever-changing hobbies lasted only until anything resembling actual work set in, and Joe had figured that Chet's occult hobby would go the same way that building rockets, organic herb farming, scrimshaw, taxidermy, fortune-telling, painting, ventriloquism, ostrich-raising, cat-breeding, rock collecting, fly-fishing, bee-keeping, movie-making, and countless other things had.

But then Chet overheard Kris telling Frank and Joe about the Halloween rituals and public spiral dance ceremony that the local Pagan community had planned, and as a result, Chet started pestering Kris to "introduce him to a real coven". After multiple refusals devolved into a _cut it out or I'm taking up human sacrifice,_ Kris refused to go anywhere near Frank's apartment longer than _hello, goodbye_ until Chet's occult fascination finally wore out.

So now Frank and Joe sprawled out in the living room of the suite they shared with Kris and her adoptive mother Mar at Bay Area Center. Several stacks of books teetered on the coffee table, with a chaos of flowcharts scattered over the floor between them. They were waiting for Kris to get back from her last class so they could add the final touches and practice their presentation.

Mar had finally gotten shutter-doors installed on the archway — rather, Frank, Joe, and Kris had spent all of Saturday measuring, hammering, screw-drivering, and cussing them into place — with a taped sign on the other side warning folks about the kittens. As a result, all three kittens were now allowed into the suite proper. Purr-oh was racing around as Frito curled up on top of Joe's notebooks, snoring in quiet, breathy purrs, and Shell hid under the couch, sneak-attacking Joe's ankles whenever they came within reach.

"Okay." Frank dropped Purr-oh onto the sofa; the kitten scrambled down to bat at Shell. "I'll bite. What's in England?"

"Suspicious, yet curious." A lean, muscular Black man with colorful beads in his short dreads and a penchant for bright colors, Joshua was the commander for the Association's Blades for the western US. "You're flirting, Handsome. I like that in my men."

Great, Joshua was in one of those moods. That meant the England thing likely wasn't too serious. Then again, "serious" had different connotations for the Blades. Joe had been here long enough to learn that, too. "Josh, you like anything in men that doesn't involve the back room at the I-Beam," Joe rasped.

"We _have_ corrupted you, _ché_." Grinning, Joshua dropped into a loose sprawl over one of the open chairs. "Though now I'm curious how you know about the I-Beam's back room."

"You're not the only one," Frank said.

"That would be compromising my sources," Joe said.

"Translation," Frank said, grinning, "Jamie dragged you there. So how much are you willing to pay so that Aunt Gertrude never finds out?"

Joe only gave his brother a dirty look. The problem at the I-Beam hadn't been what he and Jamie had done. The problem had been what had followed Joe back.

"Anyway," Joshua said, "the town of Griffinmoor, in Cornwall. Nice, quiet fishing village. Or it used to be. One of our folks runs a museum to bring in tourists —"

"Our folks?" Joe echoed. "The Association's in England, too?"

"We've got friends in lots of places, _ché._ The UK and Ireland's got a few groups like us, and we're friendly with some of them."

"Just some?" Frank said.

Joshua sighed. "The others go from 'don't care' to 'sod off', depending on the day of the week. In this case, though, it's a second-hand connection. Professor Rowbotham has colleagues at Boston University…"

"…who are also part of Boston Center," Frank finished for him, and Joshua nodded.

"Professor Rowbotham? _Chauncey_ Rowbotham?" Joe said.

"The same," Joshua said. "You know him, too?"

Joe glanced down at the SFSU library books that he and Frank had been poring through. Rowbotham had written a good third of them, as he was an expert on the Arthur legends and archeology in the British Isles. "He's one of Dad's friends," Joe said, then looked down. "Like Thatcher was."

"I know, _chè,"_ Joshua said."That's partly why I want to send you over."

Joe leaned back against the couch. One of the Blades' major run-rules: there was no such thing as coincidence, ever.

"Anyway, he called your dad, your dad called Mar, and…well, call your dad tonight. I've already talked to Rowbotham. Anyway, the good Professor's part of a group in Cornwall." Joshua grinned. "Your mission's to find the Holy Grail."

"If you start quoting Monty Python," Frank said, "I'm telling Drake you scrawled his phone number in Finnochio's bathrooms again."

No need to ask how Frank knew about _that_. That particular story was a minor legend around the Center; Drake was the Blades' self-defense instructor, a tough former Israeli-Army security officer.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Joshua said, grinning. "Anyway, there's been strange thefts in the UK and Ireland. Old artifacts. Really old, as in _before-the-time-of-Christ_ old. Most aren't worth much on the black market, so the thefts got treated as strictly local matters. But the latest got the attention of Scotland Yard and Interpol. Rowbotham runs the Griffinmoor Museum, and the artifact was on loan there. The Trewissick Grail."

Joe whistled. Children had found the ancient cup in a cave off the southern coast of England. Their picture had made the cover of _National Geographic_ : three young excited faces surrounding a glittering, golden cup engraved with elaborate knot-work, stylized animals, and runes that archeologists couldn't decipher. The story had been the inspiration behind the class project, in fact.

"So why us?" Joe said.

Joshua raised an eyebrow. "Are you implying there's some reason I shouldn't give you assignments?"

"Uh…no. Their own people can't handle it?"

"Good save." Joshua smiled. "We're unique, _ché_. They don't have anything like us. Nothing organized, anyway. The Cornwall group's been thinking about starting one up, so you two'll have some eyes on you to see how you handle things."

"You said Interpol was called in," Frank said. "I'd like to think Joe and I are good, but we're not _that_ good."

"They were, but the Professor doesn't think they'll get anywhere." Joshua leaned back in the chair. "Something else is going on, but Rowbotham wouldn't go into much detail over the phone."

Joe exchanged another look with his brother.

"So, why you? First, your dad asked — that's why I said to call him. You're known to Rowbotham. You're Scots-Irish descent, so you've got blood-affinity over there. You've got criminal investigation experience, and your daddy's known to Interpol and the Yard, so you might be able to work those connections." Joshua nudged the stack of books with his foot. "You're picking up the myth-lore and religion stuff from Kris. Not to mention you two have a mix of skepticism and true-Seeing that's hard to fool."

"You're not sending Kris," Joe said.

Joshua glanced towards Kris's hall door.

"She's not back yet," Frank said.

Nodding, Joshua still lowered his voice. "If you can talk her into it, I will. I'd like to get her out of here for a while. _With_ you, mind. Not in your place. It'll leave us short-handed here, but…well…"

"Understood," Frank said.

Joe scowled. Frank had told him what had happened with Vão and Rafe. If Joe had been there, it wouldn't have been so quiet or peaceful.

Nodding again, Joshua leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Last and most important reason, this gets _you_ out of the country for a bit. Expanding horizons is always good, but in this case…"

"You're getting us out of reach of the feds." Joe wasn't sure whether to be annoyed or not.

"Be honest with yourself, _chè._ You two have been nervy since NYC. So — maybe. Maybe not."

"Josh, the man was following me!"

Joshua looked at him for a long moment.

Joe shifted uncomfortably. He'd seen the man. The man had been watching him. He'd followed Joe and Jamie out onto the street and tailed them. It wasn't like the incident back in June, when they first got here. It was _real,_ not paranoia.

"You're going to hate me for this, but how do you know it was a fed?" Joshua raised a hand, stilling Joe's protest. "No, seriously. You were in a gay club. You're good-looking — that's not flirting. That's fact. And you were giving everyone a show, to put it politely. It could've been someone hoping for a pickup." Joshua smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Some guys just won't take _no_ for an answer."

Face burning, Joe looked down. It'd just been him and Jamie. He'd been showing off for her, because she'd wanted it…and he'd wanted it — sort of — and the tail hadn't acted anything like someone cruising for a pickup.

"I'm not second-guessing you. I want my people to trust their instincts. At the same time…" Joshua sighed. "Well, let's say I'm giving you something where you _don't_ have to look over your shoulder twenty-four-seven. Shake down and get your groove back. If you can get Kris to go with you, even better."

Blowing out a breath, Joe slumped back. He had to admit: _nervy_ was an understatement. Dad had made hefty threats to certain people in the CIA and Justice Department over the whole NYC deal. Dad had also made sure Frank and Joe knew that, and that Dad definitely had the personal, psychological, and national-security ammunition to back those threats up.

Such things hadn't stopped them from grabbing Joe to begin with, though.

"You could just tell her to go," Frank said.

"I could," Joshua said. "But if I order her, she's going to think it's just because of Vão and Rafe. If it comes from you, well…it's her big brothers asking for help."

"Her big brothers _will_ need the help," Joe said dryly. "If it's myth stuff, I mean."

"You underestimate yourself, _chè."_

"About that," Frank said slowly. "Kris's never really told us — but how'd she get involved with those two? I mean, she wasn't like that in Bayport. She never dated or anything."

"Prom," Joe said, eyeing his brother. What did this have to do with anything?

"That wasn't a date, and you know it. And she _still_ freaked."

"I haven't heard about this," Joshua said.

"It was nothing." Joe sighed. "My girlfriend had family problems, and the tickets weren't refundable. Frank got the bright idea of me asking Kris."

Frank shrugged. "Everyone knew she's like our sister, and she was…well…an out, so she hadn't been asked. I just thought that way she'd get to go and it wouldn't cause Joe trouble with Wendy."

"But when I asked her, Tag freaked," Joe said. "Mar had to calm her down. I don't know what happened."

Joshua's expression was odd. "Did she go?"

Both Frank and Joe nodded. "Yeah," Frank said. "I was going to skip, because I couldn't take Callie, but Mar talked me into going, too. To run interference, she said. So I asked Sharon, so Kris'd have someone else to talk to —"

"Sharon…?"

"Kris's best friend. She's kinda weird." Joe paused, as something occurred to him. "Y'know, thinking about it…"

Frank grinned. "I'm way ahead of you. I already asked. Kris said she's a 'path."

Joe's mouth quirked. Sharon, Gifted. That explained some things.

" _That_ Sharon," Joshua said. "Gotcha. Kris wrote me a little about that prom thing, just that you'd taken her. Huh."

"But that's what I mean. She freaked really bad just because Joe asked her out as a friend. And then we get to New Orleans and find out she's involved with _two_ guys. That's…" Frank shook his head.

"It surprised all of us, _chè."_

"Complicated?"

"Understatement and half." Joshua sighed. "It was during our first assignment as a working team. I don't know what was going through Kris's head, though I can make a good guess about Vão and Rafe."

"I doubt heads were involved," Frank said dryly.

"Depends on your definition," Joshua said. "Anyway, they'd been dealing with their Gifts in a really bad way and she was the first chick they'd run into here who was Gifted and trained. They started one-upping each other to get her attention — two humongous male-egos competing for fresh meat, and she fell for it."

Joe could see that train-wreck: as far as he knew, Kris had never dated, and all the guys in high school ignored her. She'd had crushes on teen idols, but nothing else. A couple smooth-talking rock musicians making a big deal over her…?

"By the time I realized what was going on, it was too late," Joshua was saying. "Nothing me or Mar said made a difference. Mind, I'm not saying Rafe and Vão are bad. But…well."

"But you didn't stop it," Frank said.

" _Chè,_ how would you like it if I tried to break you and Nancy up?"

"That's different. That's —"

"It's exactly the same. You can't live someone's life for them. For all we know, they could've been good for her. They still might."

It was hard to reconcile that: what Frank had told him versus the musicians who'd visited Joe in the New Orleans hospital. Rafe had, anyway. It hadn't been dutiful visits, either — Rafe had spent a lot of time just letting Joe talk and showing him bits of magic. Joe shifted again, uncomfortable, uncertain.

"Anyway, if you can convince her to join you, great," Joshua said. "And you get a couple weeks in jolly ol' England at the Association's expense chasing down simple theft." Then Joshua was grinning again. "Abuse it for all it's worth."


	6. Sword, Cup, Spear

_**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, favorites, & follows! Oh, and yeah, I know that Koosh balls weren't around until the '80s. A local toy store had a time warp. Besides, I don't want to imagine a world without koosh balls in it. :)**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

"You get to go to _England?"_

Grinning, Joe tossed Kris one of the Koosh balls that Frank had lying around. They'd presented their mythology project today and Frank and Joe had talked Kris into lunch at a new Vietnamese place near campus in celebration of the semester finally being over. That meant Frank had to swing by his campus apartment to stash his books and all the project paraphernalia first. Chet wasn't anywhere in sight, which made it a good time to break the news of their latest assignment.

"I heard about the Grail theft," Kris went on. "I was hoping we'd get involved. But _you_ get to go? Oh, man."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Joe said.

"C'mon, you know what I mean."

"You could come with us," Frank said. "We asked and Josh okayed it. You'd really like London, Tag."

"His exact words were 'a couple weeks in England at the Association's expense, abuse it for all it's worth'," Joe said.

Biting her lip, Kris hesitated, then shook her head. "Um…I've got to spot Ruth at Wings. Feel free to call if you need info, though. Collect." Kris had a huge collection of books on mythology, folklore, weird religions, and ceremonial magic, with a huge amount of "etc." It was the collection that Joe suspected that he needed to build up, but didn't dare, not until he finally moved out of Bayport and away from Aunt Gertrude's easily-shocked sensibilities.

"That'll halve the packing, anyway," Frank said.

"Just keep in mind the time difference," Kris said. "Wake me at 4 AM, and I'll never forgive you."

"Blackmail," Joe teased. "We'd get to hear all the words you're not supposed to know, then threaten to tell Mar." He caught her thrown Koosh ball, tossed it right back.

"Right. _Shimá_ would give me definitions and correct my pronunciation."

"If you come with us, we wouldn't worry about waking you," Frank said. "And it'd save on the phone calls. Air-flight's cheaper than long distance rates."

"You're helping the guy who wrote half the books in our project, right?"

"He's a specialist, Tag. You're the generalist. Even Josh thinks you'd be lots of help over there."

Joe kicked his brother in the ankle. Too pushy.

"We checked with Dad — Interpol's watching for any sign of the Grail leaving the country," Frank said calmly, as if Joe hadn't done anything. "It worries me. What would anyone want magically with a Christian artifact?"

Finding out that Dad knew about Joe's Gift had been a shock — learning that Dad had been protecting both of them from government interference ever since they were kids had been a revelation that Joe hadn't fully come to terms with. They'd called him after Joshua had given them the assignment, and Dad had given them the lowdown on the mundane areas of the theft.

"Thatcher used Christian stuff, too, big brother," Kris said, looking suspiciously from Joe to Frank and back.

"If someone wants something badly enough, they'll use anything at hand," Joe said.

"That Grail's not Christian, anyway. Didn't you look at those pics?" Kris grabbed her backpack, pulled out the issue of _National Geographic_ which they'd used in their project, and opened it on the coffee table. That particular issue had gorgeous, detailed pictures of the Trewissick Grail. Runic symbols rimmed the edge, with the bowl covered in intricate knot-work, with interlaced deer, fish, and vines linking four circled-crosses at each quarter point.

"Those…" Frank touched one of the crosses.

"The symbol's lots older than Christianity. The union of all the elements: fire, earth, air, water, with spirit in the center." Kris touched each point in turn. "The fish — that's the Salmon of Knowledge, from the story of Taliesin. The leaves, oak and holly."

"Oak king and holly king," Joe murmured. "Oak, the king of spring and summer, holly ruling fall and winter."

"Exactly," Kris said.

"You're talking about the tree calendar. You know that's been disproven." Frank hesitated. "But you're saying the Grail's Irish."

Kris shook her head. "Not really. There's a lot of crossover in the Isles. I _am_ saying it's no Christian cup."

At that point, a loud muffled yawn interrupted their conversation. A door rattled from the hallway, and, yawning, Chet walked into the room. He stopped, blinking sleepily at them — Joe stared.

The black robe wasn't too out-there, though it barely reached Chet's shin. It was everything else: the shoulder sash with alchemical sigils in silver paint, a large garish circled-triangle in bronze hanging around Chet's neck with a leather shoelace, and a black-and-white striped Egyptian _nymess_ on Chet's head. The overall effect made Chet look like the old _Batman_ show's King Tut in old-time prisoners' garb.

"Great!" Chet said. "I _knew_ you'd show today, Tag — and I _told_ you that ESP stuff really worked, Frank. And I've got something to show you." With that, he headed back to his bedroom.

With a low groan, Frank buried his head in his hands. Joe stared after Chet, trying to process what he'd just seen.

"I'm gone. I'm so gone." Kris shoved to her feet, but Frank snagged her arm.

"You do, and he won't give me any peace. Let him get it out of his system. _Please._ "

"That'd take a fire hose enema," Kris sighed, but sat back down. "This means you're paying for lunch."

"Gladly," Frank said.

"You're slipping," Joe said to Kris. "You didn't pick him up at all."

"Um… _some-_ one put heavy wards on the rooms…"

Glaring, Frank thumped the coffee table with a loud cough.

Chet came back. He'd taken the headdress off, but now he held a large leather-bound book. "There!" He dropped the book to the coffee table. The book's cover was scuffed-up and grainy, though its spine was smooth, deep red. Then Chet looked at Frank and Joe. "That place on Yerba Buena. The one you're so secretive about. It's really a commune, right? Do they want new members?"

"No," Joe and Kris said together.

Frank nudged the ledger. "What's this?"

"A Book of Shadows," Chet said. "Iola found it in our attic and sent it to me. Is that enough proof so I can join your coven, Kris?"

Eyes closed, Kris had her hands steepled in front of her face. Joe looked at the book. It reminded him of the antique estate ledgers that Old Man Applegate'd had in his library.

"I have to ask," Frank said. "I really do. Proof of what?"

Chet gave him a pitying look. "I _told_ you. Proof that I'm a witch. Gramma was, I mean. You have to be from a witch family to join a real coven. But it's okay to ask, Frank. I know you don't know about this stuff. Just don't tell anyone, all right?"

There wasn't any energy or magic in the book that Joe could tell, but he wasn't about to touch it. If it did have anything to do with any religion, he didn't want to accidentally desecrate it.

"No." Kris got to her feet and slung her backpack over her shoulder. "No, no, _no._ I am not dealing with this."

"It's okay," Chet said. "No one knows about the book. I didn't tell Ma or Pa, I mean. I'm the only warlock of my generation."

"Warlock," Joe said slowly. Now to see how deep Chet was willing to shove his foot into his mouth…

"A male witch," Chet said. "You didn't know that?"

"Actually, it means _traitor,"_ Frank said. "It's from the old English _wærloga_ , for _oath breaker._ "

"I think I'd know a bit more than you would, Frank," Chet said.

"Yeah, Frank, a real witch would know more about it than you would," Joe said, with a straight face.

"Well, this _real witch_ is starving," Kris said. "And if I don't get food within the next twenty minutes, I'm not responsible for whatever shows up at midnight on your doorstep."

"Don't you want to look at it?" Chet said plaintively. "I mean, all that history lost in the Burning Times — your coven might want to re-consecrate it."

At the door, Kris looked up at the ceiling, then sighed. "Fine. Fine. I'll look it over. But no, Chet, you can't join my coven. We're _Dianic_."

"That's cool," Chet assured her. "I can get into the Greek gods."

Another ceiling-gaze, then Kris looked at the book, then at Frank and Joe — Joe shook his head, holding both his hands up, palms out, in a clear _I'm Not Touching That_ gesture — and, with another sigh, Kris grabbed it up and stuffed it into her backpack. "Yeah. Okay. I'll get back to you."

"By the way," Frank said to Chet, "why do you think Yerba Buena's a commune?"

Joe raised his head. That hadn't occurred to him. If Chet talked to the wrong person, that could be major trouble. After the catastrophe with People's Gate, certain parts of the government had gotten real touchy over anything even slightly off the beaten trail.

"I tailed you." Chet reddened. "That's part of the initiation process. To find a teacher on your own. And since Joe's Tag's apprentice, I thought I'd have a better chance following him. You guys are so close-mouthed about it, I thought maybe Tag's coven was there, too. I kinda watched it for a while, but —"

"Um — Joe's my _what?"_ Kris said.

"How do you figure that?" Joe said, heart sinking. Chet had tailed him. _Chet._ If the feds were using the people around him…

"It's obvious," Chet said. "She wears the pentagram. Only initiated witches can wear that. And you've all been acting like you've got some big secret to keep. I _know_ you guys."

Kris, Joe, and Frank all looked at each other. "Um…Chet, why don't you go through the public circles?" Kris said. "I mean, Coven Spiral had the big Samhain thing —"

"And what happened to that group you were with?" Frank said.

Chet snorted. "They're worthless. That's what Pickenbaugh says. They're just pandering to the fad." He looked at their blank faces. "Pickenbaugh? Y'know, the Witchmaster of England?"

"Never heard of him," Joe said. Kris was now scowling.

"Hang on, I'll show you." Chet went back to his room.

"I keep wanting to leave," Kris said to Frank and Joe. "But it's like a train wreck."

"A triple train wreck, in slow motion," Joe said.

"Spiral's your main group, isn't it?" Frank said to Kris.

"Yeah," Kris said.

"So he's bugging you to join a group he just called worthless."

Joe shook his head. "You're asking for sense from someone wearing that get-up?"

"Point taken," Frank said, smiling.

Chet came back and shoved a bunch of neon-colored pamphlets at Joe. "That's his stuff. He was really impressed with my letter. He said I have a natural aptitude — he wants to meet in person!"

"He's never met you," Kris said slowly, "but he can tell you're a natural?"

"Yeah, he's a real witch," Chet said proudly. 'He can pick up strong vibes like that."

Joe tried to hand the pamphlets back. "Look, I don't have time right now, Chet."

"You can keep them. Look at 'em later, I mean. They sent too many by mistake. Uh —" Reddening, Chet looked at Kris. "I don't mean to take over your teaching."

"No, no, go right ahead," Kris said. "I'll just stick with my worthless group. I'll be at the stairs."

As the door shut behind Kris, Joe looked over the pamphlets — cheap paper with smudgy black-and-white pictures of pentagrams and horned satyrs, proclaiming a variety of things that the "Olde Religion" could do for someone and "the effrontery of Modern Wicca". One was a listing of books for sale by whoever this Pickenbaugh was: "Effective Hexes", "Voodoo: the Truth", "True Witch Craft", and "An Authentic Grimoire of The West Country".

Chet was glaring at the door. "What crawled up her butt?"

"She's had a bad week," Joe said. "We'll talk to her."

"And you did interfere with her apprentice here," Frank said with a straight face, as he got to his feet; Joe shoved the pamphlets into his back pack. "And we did promise her lunch. She starts turning people into frogs when she gets irritable."

"That's just a myth. Real witches don't do that kind of thing." Chet looked at the clock. "I'd go with you so we could go over the Book, but I have my last class in half an hour. Tell Tag she can get back with me later, okay? I'll apologize then."

Joe clamped his mouth shut as he followed Frank out to the hallway — though he heard Chet's jubilant _"Yes!"_ before the door clicked shut. Kris stood by the stairwell door, waiting until Frank and Joe caught up.

"God," Kris said to the ceiling, the moment the stairwell door closed behind them. "God, god, _god…"_

"Which one?" Joe said, grinning.

Kris gave him a _look._ "All of them. But C'thulu's top of the list right now."

"He's fictional."

"I'll find a way."

"Don't you dare summon C'thulu," Frank said. "I want to get my rent deposit back."

"Are you kidding?" Joe said. "I'd want to be there just for the explanation. But okay, Tag, spill it — what's _Dianic?_ "

"Another form of Wicca. Women only." Kris held the bottom door open for them; the day was sunny and bright, though chilly. They walked along 20th Avenue, crossing Buckingham towards the new strip mall; the Vietnamese place was at the far end. "Our main group's mixed, but…well…some of us wanted our own space. And before you ask, there's no such thing as a _witchmaster._ Gods. He's gotten worse, I swear. How can _anyone_ be so…so…"

"Naive?" Joe said. "Ignorant?"

"Gullible. I mean, he hung out with you guys more'n I did. You'd think _some_ sense'd rub off."

"It's that bit about meeting in person that's setting off my alarms," Frank said. "Especially since we're going to be out of the country."

"I'll try to keep an eye on him," Kris sighed. "On top of everything else."

"Is it safe to be taking that book with us?" Joe tapped Kris's backpack. "I'm guessing it's not real, but…"

"Even if it is, it's perfectly safe," Kris said. "Seriously. A Book of Shadows is like…um…like a church missalette. Um…a diary, missalette, and a cookbook, actually. I just want to make sure Old Ma Morton didn't put any herb cocktails in there."

"Like belladonna flying potions, you mean," Frank said. "Thanks, Tag. The last thing we need is for Chet to experiment like that."

Kris kicked at a rock, scoring the curb. "I'll admit, I'm curious. If there's anything to it, I mean, like if his grandma was part of the Spiritualists, it could be interesting. Remember all those spooky stories she used to tell?"

"I just had a horrible thought," Joe said. "Chet's not _really_ Gifted, is he? I mean, that bit about ESP and seeing you…"

"Not that I've ever been able to tell," Kris said.

"Everything he's tried on me has been nothing but cold-reading," Frank said. "Tag did better than _that_ when we were kids."

"Um…but you still didn't believe me," Kris said.

"I got better," Frank said.

The Vietnamese restaurant looked plastic and new, and smelled of garlic, grilled pork, and lemongrass. While they were waiting for their food, Kris pulled the _National Geographic_ back out and opened it to the pictures of the Trewissick Grail. Joe really wanted to look at that Book of Shadows, but opening it around food — especially messy chopstick-food like this — was just asking for trouble.

"You were saying it's not a Christian cup," Frank said, then waited as Joe set up the small bit of magic to make folks ignore their chat. When Joe nodded, Frank picked back up. "Okay. I can see that. Which leaves the question of why the thieves targeted this one and not the others."

"Cup…water," Joe mused. "Female element. Pagan worship rituals, maybe?"

Kris snorted. "Don't take the Murray book as gospel. There was never no big Goddess cult way back when. I'm thinking hospitality cup. Lots of cultures believed sharing drink placed a guest under protection."

Now Joe shook his head. "Then why hide it in a cave? The other things stolen follow the quarter-pattern. Bronze swords from Wolverton, the spearheads from Sutton Hoo…"

"A lot of the thefts were Middle Ages stuff," Frank said. "Sutton Hoo was an anomaly."

Kris eyed him. "They steal one specific cup, but all the rest is just general stuff?"

"You're right, it doesn't make sense," Frank said, then paused. "Out with it, Tag. You've thought of something, I can tell."

"I don't know." She sounded troubled. "I keep thinking it's like New Orleans. Like there's things that the cops haven't connected. And something else —"

"Well, swords, they're air," Joe said, thinking out loud. Their class had covered a hefty amount of Celtic symbology. "The spears, fire. Cup, water. Earth's the missing element, as far as we know." He couldn't stop staring at the pictures in Time. "Spears. Shouldn't that be wands?"

"Sometimes," Kris said slowly. "It depends on the culture you're talking about. It's reminding me of something…"

"So why change it?"

"Maybe there's some specific weapon they're after," Frank said. "Maybe they don't know exactly what they're looking for, so they're taking anything that might fit, on the chance it's the real deal. Our class mentioned things like that. The Second Battle of _Magh Tuireadh_. A sword and spear."

It took Joe a moment to English-ize the name: Moytura. Trust Frank to have memorized the Gaelic term.

"That's it." Kris dug into her back pack, pulled out the textbook, and paged through it. "Here. This's what I was thinking of. The sword, _Fragarach,_ the Answerer. You couldn't tell a lie if it was up against your throat."

"Any sword would work like that for me," Joe said.

"A couple different spears," Kris said. " _Gae Assail,_ which never missed. The _Luín_ of Celtchar, which had to be kept in water so it wouldn't ignite."

"Those are gods' weapons, though." Frank leaned over to read. "Lugh's. They didn't really exist."

"Lugh wasn't a god," Kris said. "Not at first, anyway. He was High King of Ireland until he joined the _Tuatha de Danaan."_

"That'd still make them really old," Frank said. "They'd be falling apart, no matter how much magic was in them."

"Depends what they're made of," Joe said, sitting back. High King of Ireland? Gramma Kelly had long claimed that Mom's family was descended from Irish kings, and the Blades had pounded _there's no such thing as coincidence_ into the brothers' heads until Joe was certain it was tattooed inside his skull. "Maybe there is something to the myths. As long as the thieves believe them — that's the important part." Joe thought a moment; he wasn't about to let Frank top him so easily. "There's a spear that has to do with Jesus…the Spear of Destiny."

"Only if they're willing to take on the Vatican to get it." Frank gave Joe an amused _look_ that said Frank knew very well what Joe was trying to do. "Or the Austrian Imperial Treasury."

Joe sighed. So much for out-smarting his brother. Still…no, they couldn't talk to Gramma about her claims. She was in a nursing home. She'd barely recognized Frank and Joe on their last visit, and even then, she'd spent that visit trying to get them to talk to their dead mother.

Still, that visit had done some good — Gramma remembered the name of the uncle who'd emigrated with her father, though the information had been buried in a lot of rambling memories. Being able to pass that information to their Uncle Mick, along with a much-edited version of what they'd stumbled over in New York with Mattie and Sarah and offering to help foot the bill for the transfer of the children's bodies to Bayport: definitely worth it. Hopefully, there'd be two more family members home before New Year's.

"So if they follow the _earth-air-fire-water_ pattern," Frank was saying, "they'd have to find a significant rock, then. The Stone of Scone at Westminster, but that's heavily guarded." He was silent for a moment. "There's an Irish stone. The hill of Tara."

"The _Lia Fáil_ ," Kris said, "and they wouldn't need to steal it. That's open for anyone to see and visit."

The waiter swooped in at that point, setting their food down: steaming bowls of spicy shrimp _pho_ , _bahn mi_ subs, and spring rolls stuffed with shrimp, green onion, mint, and rice noodles. Conversation ceased until the waiter left, and Joe dug in — all the trouble that they got into out here, but the food was worth it.

"There's standing stones all over Ireland," Joe said, after a couple spoonfuls of soup. Maybe they could talk Joshua into allowing a trip there to connect with the old family, especially if they phrased it as part of the investigation. "The whole UK, for that matter. They could use any of them."

"No, Joe," Kris said. "You just said it, about belief. Like Thatcher. If your thieves are looking for specific weapons and the Grail, they've got a purpose in mind."

Just what Joe needed to hear. Then again, dealing with meta-physical trouble was what Blades were for, and he'd known what the job was when he took it.

"They'll want something with power behind it, you mean," Frank said. "Something that catches folks' imaginations. Stonehenge, for that matter. That way they don't have to cross the Irish Sea to get to it."

"That'd work. Stonehenge's still used by the Pagans over there." Kris shook her head. "You have no idea how weirdit is to hear you two talking like this."

"Try it from this end," Joe said dryly. He and Frank had teased her for years over the "spooky stuff" that she'd insisted was real, until they'd had it shoved in their faces that it _was_ real, courtesy the same serial killers responsible for Joe's scars and crutch.

"Could Druids be behind it?" Frank said. "Or modern Pagans?"

"Maybe even people like Chet," Joe said. "Someone not realizing what they're really getting into."

Kris hesitated. "I don't know. I might be able to get you in touch with a Druid grove here. They're connected with the UK. Everything else…" She shook her head slowly. "Witches over there aren't like here. More traditional, far more secretive. Hidden in families and villages. Tread _very_ carefully if you check that route, big brothers."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. "That's why we'd like you there, too, Tag," Frank said. "If it does go that way. You'd be a lot more convincing than we would."

"Pretend to be Chet," Kris said. "And let 'em take advantage of you."

"That's not funny, Tag."

"I'm not joking."

"They'll shake their broomsticks at us," Joe said, trying to make a joke of it to play off the sudden disquiet her words caused. "Big deal."

Kris shook her head again. "They never forgot where it all came from. Rural farmers. The Old-Country Craft's the path of Nature, both good and bad. Harvest crops, plant seeds, slaughter livestock — birth, life, death, it's all one. Death's just another part of life."

"Human sacrifice, you mean," Frank said.

"Maybe," Kris said. "The wicker man. The barley dream. No one knows how real those stories are." Her gaze rested on Joe. "Don't be the ones to find out."


	7. Arrival

_**A/N: Here you go. Thanks again for all the reviews, favorites, and follows! You folks surprised me: I honestly didn't think anyone would catch my shout-out to Susan Cooper's "Over Sea, Under Stone" in the last chapter. Which just proves I've got awesome readers & you're a classy bunch! **_

_**# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

"Frank! Joe!"

Yawning, Frank turned; Joe was shaking his head, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. It'd been an exhausting seventeen-hour flight, and it hadn't helped that the in-flight movie had been _Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band_. Noisy, annoying, and boring. Worse, Joe kept singing along with the soundtrack, just loud enough for Frank to hear, and while time had brought some healing to Joe's voice, it was still raspy and rough, as if he'd been breathing smoke his whole life.

Frank hadn't had the heart to tell him to shut up.

A pale, elderly man with flowing white hair and a goatee waved his cane at them as he strode over. His eyes were sharp and bright, crinkled with laugh lines at the corners; he was bundled in a thick gray-wool peacoat.

"You look much as your father," the man said warmly to Frank, and held out his hand. "Chauncey Rowbotham. A pleasure to meet you, finally." His gaze lingered on Joe's crutch. "You both look right knackered. It's an hour to Griffinmoor, so you can kip in the car." His accent was brisk and clipped.

"Good to meet you, Professor," Frank said. "And thanks. We didn't get any sleep on the plane."

Thank God, they didn't have to drive. The initial plan had been to rent a car, but Mar had reminded them how bad their jet lag had been just between Boston and San Francisco. Right now, it was hard enough navigating tiny Newquay Airport through a thick haze of exhaustion while trying to dodge Rowbotham's waving cane.

The professor's car turned out to be a cherry-red Triumph convertible. Joe curled up in the backseat with a weary sigh, leaving Frank the front. Frank eyed his brother with concern; Joe's limp was more pronounced, a sign of how exhausted he was.

"I must admit, it was a bit a shock hearing about you two," Rowbotham said, as he pulled on a long, brown over-coat with elbow-length leather gloves, then buckled on leather-strapped goggles before sliding into the driver's seat. "I never thought Fenton's boys would admit being Gifted."

"Joe is." Frank tried not to stare at the odd clothes. Maybe it was just some English thing. "I'm not."

That earned him a swift, sharp glance. "Lad, to borrow a phrase from you Yankees, sheep shit."

There was choked noise from the backseat. Frank glanced back.

Joe stared at the roof canvas with a too-innocent look on his face. "I didn't say anything. I didn't say a word."

"I met your mother," Rowbotham went on, heedless. "Your parents visited here on their honeymoon. Beautiful woman, as strong-headed as your father. Extraordinarily Gifted, quite strong Sight. No surprise, there. Sight runs in the Irish bloodlines. So don't tell me you're not Gifted, my boy. Someone as Laura — her blood will run true, soon as late."

Rowbotham knew about Mom? But Frank held his peace. Letting people ramble was a good way to get information.

"Sight," Joe rasped.

"Spirit Sight," Rowbotham said. "Faery Sight. Seeing the Otherworld — ghosts, beasties, and things that go bump in the night. Didn't that Association of yours teach you about that?"

"It's been a crash course," Frank said, wondering why Mom would've told this man anything like that.

"Hmph. With a father as Fenton, I — ah — imagine your trouble's been believing it."

"That's an understatement," Joe yawned.

Now Rowbotham smiled. "Don't mind an old man's nattering, lads. A habit from my teaching days. I won't take it amiss if you kip off. I'm used to classrooms of comatose students."

Frank relaxed back, but he was too exhausted to sleep. He settled for watching the passing fields and moor-land under the overcast sky. Everything seemed small and cramped, and seeing cars on the wrong side of the road was unnerving. The airport road soon shifted to snow-covered fields and forest — not much snow, to Frank's surprise, only an inch or so — with many spots where the road was lined on either side with high, bristly bushes that scraped the car when Rowbotham pulled over to let other cars pass. Worse were the rickety bridges that didn't look like they'd hold a horse, let alone a car, but Rowbotham sped over them without slowing. In some places, there wasn't even a bridge, leaving Rowbotham to plow through the icy creeks and streams and hope for the best.

No, Frank was definitely not Gifted, and he didn't want to be. Bad enough he'd gotten sensitive to magic, but at least that was useful. He'd been trying to wring all possible usefulness out of Kris's and Joe's Gifts and figuring out ways to use them to his own advantage, but that was basic common sense, considering what the Blades dealt with.

"I've read about all the snow you Yanks have gotten the last couple years," Rowbotham said, nodding at the fields. "We can — ah — manage something to impress you, I'm sure. Not staying for Yule, though, eh?"

"Not planning on it," Frank said. Odd choice of words, _Yule_. Maybe the Professor was old-fashioned. "Aunt Gertrude'd never forgive us."

Another of those wide grins. "Fenton's told me about her. I don't blame you, lad. Not at all."

Breaks in the bushes showed long-fleeced sheep and cattle huddled together in the cold fields. To Frank's surprise, people were camped in clearings just off the road: brightly painted and decorated trailers, with shaggy ponies grazing alongside muddy motorbikes and small pickup trucks. "People camp in _winter?"_

"Travelers," Rowbotham said. _"Romanichal,_ mostly. Romany. Griffinmoor's one of their — ah — _atching tans._ Encampments," he added, when Frank looked confused.

Griffinmoor was a decent-sized cluster of white-stone houses and shops in the middle of fields and moor, gray stone buildings and walled gardens, cobbled roads, a small square church with an ancient graveyard thick with headstones and weathered crosses. In the distance, past thick snow-dusted trees and on top of a craggy hill, loomed a walled stone castle. With the snow capping the roofs and walls, the village looked like a Christmas card. Calm, peaceful, quiet…

Rowbotham slammed on the brakes with an un-Christmas-like oath. The compact skidded a little on the ice, then settled.

"What — ?" From the backseat, Joe startled awake.

"Damn them," Rowbotham muttered. "I'd thought the funeral would be done by now. I'd hoped to dance on the grave before tea."

A small procession of bedraggled mourners crossed the road, heading away from the village as they carried a rough-hewn black coffin, led by a wild-eyed, bushy-haired man holding an upright sword. A few of the mourners glared towards Rowbotham's car; most ignored it. All of them were in black robes, some with hoods pulled up, and they were chanting something unintelligible.

Whatever solemn atmosphere the mourners were hoping for, though, was ruined by the sword-holder's red-and-yellow wool mittens.

"Stupid gits, the lot of them," Rowbotham said.

"Something we should know about?" Frank said.

"Not unless you're gullible idiots. No, forget I said that. But there, lads, is a prime example of critical thought gone to bollocks. Witches. Bah."

That was the last thing he'd expected to hear. Frank looked at Rowbotham, unsure how to answer.

The last of the mourners cleared the road, and Rowbotham hit the gas, flashing an eloquent, rude gesture as he passed. "John Pickenbaugh, self-styled witchmaster, shyster, and good-for-nothing tosser. Not that you could tell any of his lot that. That's him they're burying, and good riddance."

Frank turned to get another look at the mourners. Pickenbaugh was the guy that Chet had been so enthusiastic about. So Pickenbaugh was dead now, and his headquarters was likely nearby, if they were burying him here.

No such thing as coincidence…

"Witchmaster?" Joe said, with another yawn. "I thought covens were led by women."

Rowbotham gave Joe one of those swift, sharp looks. "That's the Yank version, is it?" Then, before either brother could answer, "No, forget I said that, as well. You Yanks do your best with what you have. Not your fault that it got cocked up by idiot ceremonialists and airy-fairy hippies."

He pulled into a small gravel parking lot that looked to be shared with the houses around it, across from a two-story, gray-stone house with snow covering the rough stone wall around its cramped front yard. The house stood at the bend of a three-way intersection, surrounded by similar snow-covered houses.

 _Tread very carefully_ , Kris had said. "We're not witches," Frank said.

"Glad to hear it," Rowbotham said crisply. He slid out of the car, then stopped Joe from getting the luggage. "No, young man, you go on in the house. I haven't had time to clear the walk. That crutch on this ice is plenty for you. No arguments. Go."

Frank caught Joe's sly grin and sighed. Up until that past spring, up until New Orleans, Frank would take full, gleeful, sadistic advantage of his older-brother status to pile all the luggage on Joe. Now Joe had figured out how to turn the tables — Frank wasn't about to let the elderly professor handle more than a token bag. Not that there was much: the brothers tended to travel light.

Frank would give his right arm to be able to pile the luggage on Joe again, and not out of any gleefully-sadistic sibling rivalry, either. Joe had gotten a lot better since working with Drake at Bay Area Center, but his balance was still shaky, especially when he was tired.

Though it was a point of pride that none of the Blades — save Joshua and Drake — would go up against Joe in practice when he had his crutch, not after what had happened to Harold Downs.

"My wife, Sibyl." Rowbotham nodded at the chunky, snaggletoothed woman with long gray hair who was bustling in the kitchen as he and Frank wrestled the luggage in. Frank nodded hello, maneuvering carefully through the small space. Joe was seated at the lace-covered table, hands curled around a steaming cup of tea.

"Upstairs, last door on the right, ducks," Sibyl said to Frank. Compared to her husband's, her accent was broader and lilted. "Loo's right across the hall, if you need, like, next to the bathroom. Then come back down for a cuppa. You don't mind sharing a room, do you?"

"Used to it," Frank said. Narrow, cramped hallway, creaky wooden floors. The guest bedroom was pleasant, if chilly, with a fireplace opposite the beds. Both beds had thick eiderdowns that smelled of lavender, the walls covered in bright blue-striped wallpaper, and windows suction-cupped with lace-and-crystal butterflies.

Back in the kitchen, he was ensconced at the table himself, a hot cup of tea and a plate of scones in front of him, complete with homemade strawberry jam and something thick and whitish that Sibyl called "clotted cream" — Frank wasn't sure about that, and stuck with butter and jam. Everything in the kitchen looked small and cramped, and Frank blinked at seeing a clothes washer under the counter next to the sink.

"Plenty time for that later," Sibyl said firmly, when both Frank and Joe tried to ask about the Grail theft. "You're both yawning. Finish that cup, then go sleep your jet lag off."

"But about that witchmaster —" Joe started.

"We ran into old Picky on the road," Rowbotham said to Sibyl. "Full show, that. Surprised they weren't marching with bums wagging in the breeze."

Sibyl hmph'ed. "No master, certain. And never no witch, neither. Warlock, I name him, every foul sense the word."

 _Warlock_ was not a term for male witch, though too many people like Chet used it that way. The way that was phrased — Sybil was implying she was a witch, then?

"Pickenbaugh moved in three years ago," Rowbotham said. "Took over the old Hadley farm. They'd declared bankruptcy few years back and had to sell their land."

"Hard times for good people," Sibyl added. "Their son's still here, working Tre Marrak horses."

Rowbotham nodded. "At first Picky was no problem. Kept to himself, restored the house and cowsheds. Then he started bringing in 'followers'. Bah. Claimed he headed a powerful coven and tried bullying us locals into acknowledging him."

"We never had none nor that, didn't we," Sibyl said.

"There were words, yes," Rowbotham said mildly.

"One of our friends gave us a lot of pamphlets from the guy," Frank said. "He seemed really impressed by Pickenbaugh. It looked like a bunch of nonsense to me."

"Too interested in power, he was," Sibyl said scathingly. "Getting it, holding it, and abusing it, like. And sex. Yes, too much tha'. Attracted fools who had no money to chum with Crowley's O.T.O. crowd."

"Any word on a successor?" Rowbotham took a long drink of tea.

"Some," Sibyl said. "Nothing definite. For once, the fools'm close-mouthed, like. Which makes them more dangerous." She eyed Frank, then Joe, long, searching. Then, quietly, "I'm bending custom, now. Your safety overrides secrecy, and the American paths'm too different for me to tell clearly. Are either you of the Lady?"

"They denied it in the car," Rowbotham said.

Of the Lady? That had to mean Pagan. Frank glanced at Joe. "We have friends who are," Frank said. "But we're not."

"One of my teachers," Joe said slowly, "for my Gift, I mean. Kris — she is, but she's more like our kid sister than anything else. Me — I don't know. I just don't know." He glared at Frank. "No, Tag has _not_ been converting me."

Frank knew that. Kris would talk about Paganism and Wicca, but — and it was an important _but_ — refused to get drawn into any discussion over what beliefs were right. _"You see God your way, I see Her mine,"_ Kris had said to Frank. _"She's infinite, by both our faiths. I'm not dumb enough to limit Her."_

Still…Frank kept his face neutral. He didn't have a problem with Paganism, definitely no problem with Kris, but he and Joe had been raised good, solid Methodist, and surrounded with Irish Catholic relatives. Solid, grounded, _sensible._

"From what I understand," Rowbotham said, "their Blade training doesn't leave them open."

"Some things can't be trained against," Sibyl said. "Especially if one is uncertain as to the path 'e's on."

Joe smiled. "I know what you mean. I know what to look for. What to avoid. And I know what I _don't_ want, if that makes sense."

"Which means if they're using sex," Frank murmured, "we'll never see you again."

Joe gave him a _look._ "Only if they allow cameras. Jamie needs something for her next gallery project."

Sibyl sighed. "The cockiness of the young. Defense and weakness both, that. Mind it, then, both you."

It had the definite sound of a warning. Frank held back a sigh. Just once, he'd like to take a case without getting an ominous warning.

Then again, if Pickenbaugh was on a power trip with the occult — and judging from the pamphlets Chet had pushed on them, that was the leastof Pickenbaugh's sins — and if Sibyl thought Frank and Joe might be gullible New-Agers who could be lured in…well, the warning was kindly meant, then. Not ominous.

Right.

"You'll probably sleep through supper, ducks," Sibyl said, smiling. "Brown bread's in the box, lamb joint's in the fridge. Help yourselves to slices for sarnies when you do wake."

"Sarnies?" Joe said.

"Sandwiches, I believe the Yank term is," Rowbotham said. "Oh, and if you go exploring, just tell folks you're with us. Neighbors know we got Yanks visiting, and I only told them you were sons of one of my associates from the War. You shouldn't run into problems."


	8. First Shots

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, favorites, & follows! Happy Sunday, everyone!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

The bed was too soft, the room too quiet. Except for Frank snoring, anyway.

Joe had forgotten about that. He'd gotten used to having his own room at the Center, to hearing the winds off the Bay rattle the windows and horns from boats on the water, to the hardwood and brick being slightly chilly from the drafts.

He'd gotten spoiled, that's what it was.

Right. With the schedule he had and the things he and Frank had gotten into since arriving in San Francisco and joining the Association's Blades — _spoiled_ was the last word to use.

Finally, Joe gave up the battle. It was dark outside, and his watch showed just after ten p.m., local. He'd slept longer than he'd wanted, and now he was restless. Quietly he pulled his clothes on, then his coat, snagged up his crutch, and made his way through the house. All was dark and quiet, though there was a glow of coal from the small fireplace.

He headed outside, his breath hissing in as the deep cold stung his exposed face. A couple inches of fresh snow lay on the ground, and slick treacherous ice crunched under his feet and crutch. It was quiet, the deep quiet only the country had, with only the wind and the distant sounds of cows and sheep lowing. Joe made it to Rowbotham's car, settled back against it, and just breathed in the cold and silence.

The sky had cleared. The glorious blaze of the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, the moon waning gibbous. It was the one thing Joe missed in San Francisco due to the city lights, though Bayport was getting just as bad. For a long while, he stared up, lost in the sight. Between the stars, the moon, and the snow, the night was far from dark.

Then he shook himself. After hearing about the fake witches, Joe wanted to check the area out for any oddness. Best to do it now, while there wasn't anyone around to ask what he was doing. He and Frank weren't out here to deal with any cults, but things had a way of crossing paths when they least expected it. Fake or not, there was a reason Pickenbaugh had chosen this village out in the middle of nowhere. If there was any real magic behind what the cult was doing…or if they were involved in the theft…

Well, at least Frank and Joe would be forewarned.

Joe made certain of his balance and placement with the crutch so it wouldn't slip, then relaxed his eyes and mind.

There. He should've expected it. A glowing ley-line ran right down the road; the natural energy of the earth tended to run, pool, and collect, much like water would, and ley-lines were the creeks and rivers of magic.

There was no such thing as coincidence. The Blades ran on that, and both Joe and Frank'd had it pounded into their heads from day one. Even Dad had a similar saying. So did the fake witches know about the line…and if so…

"All right there, burd?" The voice was rough and burring. A stocky young man around Joe's age and bundled up in a thick woolens and heavy boots urged a massive black horse down the road. Breathing out clouds of steam, its mane and coat shaggy with winter growth and its hooves easily the size of skillets, the horse pulled a wooden snowplow, of all things. The young man cocked his head, then grinned, showing a missing front tooth, and held out his hand to Joe. "You're the Yank emmetin' with Rowbotham, aren'tcha?"

"One of them," Joe said, returning the shake. "Joe Hardy. My brother's sleeping."

"Fellow night owl. Nip Hadley, 'ere." Nip patted the horse along its great neck. "Me and Dob out scrapin' the straight way. Big squall comin', need to be sure it's not toppin' ice."

The horse snorted as if in agreement, and Joe grinned. He pushed away from the car, pulled his glove off, and held his hand out for Dob to nuzzle with a warm, moist nose. Joe stroked up along that broad face to scratch just under Dob's jaw before blowing gently in the horse's nostrils to introduce himself. The horse blew out another steam-cloud sigh and closed its eyes.

"Know 'osses, then?" Nip said.

"Some," Joe said. "Spent a summer on the Navajo reservation when we were kids. They had horses from wild stock. Not like him, though." He patted Dob on the neck, just as Nip had done. "He's huge."

"Marraks breed the heavy 'osses," Nip said. "None the fancy shite. These boys work for their feed. But…Navajo? You mean them wild Indians in the movies?"

"Not at all. Sheep ranch. Only scalps we saw were fake rubber ones."

Nip laughed. "Here now, mate, you can manage that crutch in the snow, walk with me. Happy to show 'ee the village."

He seemed friendly enough. Joe pulled his glove back on, re-settled his balance on the crutch. "If you don't mind me going slow, sure." Not that he needed to go slow, but it might not be a bad idea to play "helpless cripple" to the village. Folks tended to ignore him when he did that, or assumed he wasn't bright enough to understand — or worse, deaf.

"Dob's not a quick 'un," Nip said. "Come along, then."

The walk was companionable, an easy pace with its comfortable quiet broken by the scraping of Dob's plow against the cobbles and Nip's commentary on the houses and artisan shops they passed. He pointed out the museum, barely visible down a road leading towards the harbor: another white-painted stone building nestled against the hillside with what looked to be a row of similar white-painted shops.

"You don't have a truck to do the plowing?" Joe said.

"Oh, yeah. But not what folks want. Want t'see ol' country England. So here me an' Dob be."

"There's tourists in winter?"

"You're here, yeah?" Nip said, with that missing-tooth grin.

Joe grinned back. He'd run into that in Bayport. Tourists expected a quaint New England village just like in colonial times, and the downtown shops very carefully maintained that facade. The local cafe even hired a couple grizzled old men in yellow oilskins to sit outside with canes and pipes and chat with tourists in thick "New England" accents.

"Times been rough," Nip went on. "Folks havin' trouble feedin' the farms. Professor's doin' right proper, bringin' emmets in. Hirin' our gels for spare notes, that thing."

"I heard about the theft," Joe said.

Nip sighed. "Yeah. We were dancin' when Professor told us he got that Grail for his witchy stuff. He helped me draw up ways to take emmets on lorrie rides to all the Arthur places hereabouts."

That word again. "Emmets?"

"Like you and your brother. Tourists, thick as ants. Day people. Though I take it back for 'ee. You're sensible, for a Yank."

"Tell that to Frank," Joe said dryly, and Nip laughed.

"I'll guess — the baby, ar'ee? Same 'ere. Two older sisters. Always twitterin' 'bout me lackin' sense." Another quick, lacking-a-tooth grin. "Trade 'ee, if you want."

"Nah. This way I get to steal Frank's clothes."

"Sensible, as I said. Lemme tell 'ee somthin' 'bout that Grail then, baby Yank. You really missed a sight. It _glowed."_

"Glowed?"

"Yeah. Professor showed me. Like sunlight. God-touched." Nip's rough burr was touched with awe. "I'm serious, mate."

"I know you are." So whether Nip was Gifted with Sight or not, the cup had major power. Joe would ask Rowbotham about it, tomorrow.

Nip gave Joe a sharp look. "You believe me."

"You don't strike me as a liar." Joe grinned. "Least not to a baby Yank. What did you mean by 'Arthur places'?"

"You don't know? King Arthur. Once and future. This's Cornwall, mate. Every brea, tree, and pebble's got somethin' to do with him. Worse'n Glastonbury. Arthur'n witches, that's all Cornwall is." Nip nodded up into the moors. "Over hill's Arthur's Cairn. Backalong, Merlin sat there and offered folks drink from his cup, and none ever emptied it. They dug up the Cairn last year and found a gold cup. Professor had that, as well, but it got stolen with the rest." Nip grinned at Joe's look. "Many stories as that here. Tintagel's just south of here. And that Grail? Found only a bit down coast, fact."

"Huh." Joe filed that away mentally. "Maybe we'll take one of your Arthur rides before we go."

"Be glad to have 'ee." Nip nodded up the road; they were at the edge of the village bounds. "I'm a-headin' further on. Out to Tre Gowrie. Welcome to walk on, if you want."

Joe considered: probably not a good idea. He was starting to feel tired again, and the cold was getting to be too much. "No, thanks. I'll head back. Still feeling the lag from the flight."

"Right on, then." Nip offered his hand again. "Come out tomorrow. Tre Marrack, back up road thataway. Sister's a-visitin' from Ives, maybe keep your brother busy with her sense."

Joe smiled. "I'll do that. Hey, where's the Hadley farm, by the way?"

Silence. Nip scowled. "Why you wantin' to know that?"

That didn't sound good. "The professor nearly ran down the funeral today," Joe said, carefully sticking with the exact truth. "He told us about those people. Just want to know where to stay away from."

Nip relaxed. "Oh, that. Sorry, mate. Shouldn't have gone teasy on 'ee, you bein' sensible. That was Da's farm, backalong."

Joe's brain belatedly caught up. The Rowbothams had said the Hadley's son worked with the Marrack horses, and Nip had told him his last name. "I'm sorry. You told me — I didn't make the connection."

"It's all good. Back that way, half a click out, on left." Nip gestured. "Definitely stay away. They like scaring folk. Nasty scares."

"No worries there." With a friendly wave, Joe limped back towards the Rowbotham's house, feeling warm despite the snow and cold. It was tentative, but it was always good to make friends in new places. Hopefully Nip would become a good one.

Joe patted the little red Triumph with a grin as he limped past. The thought of the elderly professor with a chick-magnet car like this…

Then Joe stopped. Something wasn't right. The village was quiet, but something was off. Too quiet…?

Quiet crunches behind him, muffled and rushed — Joe only reacted, twisted and lashed out with both crutch and mage-Gift, gut-level —

— oh well, missed the gut, nailed the crotch. So much for the helpless cripple act.

Gasping, his attacker folded over, but Joe saw another out of the corner of his eye, rounded, and thrust out with the business end of the crutch.

His foot hit a patch of ice and skidded.

The other tackled and bore Joe down into the snow, tearing the crutch from his grip. "You even twitch with magic, Yank," hot onion-laden breath right in Joe's ear, sharp cold against his neck, "your throat'll be grinning, got it?"

Joe struggled, fighting to keep his attacker off-balance, to focus his Gift —

The knife pressed in. "Meant it, arsehole. Keep fighting an' I'll bleed you out like a pig."

Tensed, Joe went still, shivering as snow soaked through his jeans and burned icy-hot against his exposed face. Play along, for now. But if they tried to drag him off anywhere, all bets were off.

God, if he survived this, Frank was going to kill him.

"Now, yeh bloody muppet, y'listening?"

What Kermit the Frog had to do with this was anyone's guess. But Joe held his quip silent, waiting for an opening, anything.

"Fine," the voice growled. "We know who yer with. And why yer here. Ge'out. Or the don'll be running down another funeral." Weight leaned in, crushing Joe into the snow. "Want to find out what the wicker man is, Yank?"

Snow crunched. A metal bucket was set down in front of Joe's face — then a wet cloth clamped over Joe's mouth and nose.

— a pungent sweet smell, chloroform —

Panic tore through him. Twisting his head, Joe fought not to breathe, to kick out, but couldn't get enough leverage. He had to get free, just enough to yell. Small place as this, it would rouse the whole village.

A kick slammed into Joe's gut. He gasped in the chemical stink as another kick drove into his groin.

His last sight, just before darkness took him, as he was thrown against the stone of the front step: hands ripping open his coat and shirt…


	9. Targets

_**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews & likes, and hello to all my new followers! Brief historical note: the first paramedic squad was formed in Los Angeles in 1972; the popular TV show "Emergency!" was responsible for the rapid adoption of paramedics throughout the US. By the late '70s, paramedics & EMT squads were common in the US (though not in every area), but were just starting to catch on in other countries. Usual procedure was to toss the victim in the ambulance, speed for the hospital as fast as possible, & hope they didn't die en route. **_

_**# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Loud noise jarred Frank from deep sleep: voices, thumping, shouting. He struggled to fully wake, but exhaustion kept dragging him back.

Someone pounded on the bedroom door. "Frank, up. Your brother's in trouble."

That jolted Frank to full consciousness. _Joe —_ Frank yanked on his jeans and shoes and stumbled downstairs.

Rowbotham met him halfway. "Help Sibyl, lad." He stumbled past Frank and back up the stairs before Frank could say anything; Frank turned. The front door was open — and he froze.

Blood. Soaked into the snow, splattered all over the front steps and the yard. Too much, puddles and splatters and…

 _Blood: the first thing Frank had seen, shoving past the crates — Thatcher holding Joe to his feet with a jagged hacksaw at Joe's throat, his brother barely conscious, barely alive, blood pooled on the floor beneath him…_

Joe was sprawled in the snow, unmoving. Frank shoved past the door and down beside Joe to lay a hand on Joe's neck for pulse: strong. Joe didn't even stir, save for deep, convulsive shivering.

Sibyl was wrapping a blanket around Joe. "None his, as far as can tell. Help me here."

Alive. Joe was alive. No coat, his clothes soaked in blood, his shirt torn open — and Frank stared.

Joe's chest was marked with a stylized drawing of a key, in blood.

"Move, boy," Sibyl snapped, and that shook Frank out of his shock.

Together they hauled Joe inside and onto the sofa in the sitting room. Then Frank shoved the sofa close to the fireplace, where Professor Rowbotham was building up the fire.

"Get them wet clothes off 'im," Sibyl said. "I'll bring more blankets and the hot water bottle. Warm heat on his chest, that's what he needs."

Frank caught the edge of another scent, an odd chemical smell under the blood. He leaned closer to Joe's face. "Chloroform," Frank said, fighting panic down as he pulled Joe's blood-soaked shirt and jeans off. Chloroform could _kill._ Put together with hypothermia…though no wounds, though, as far as Frank could tell. Thank God.

"I've rung Dr. Burelli," Rowbotham said, turning to look at them, then stopped, staring at Joe's marked chest.

Not important right now. There were other blood-marks on Joe's chest, but Frank ignored those for the moment, checking his brother over. Joe's breathing was shallow, his skin cold and pale, his pulse still strong. How long had he been out there?

"Wrap 'im in these. Make sure a blanket is between his chest and this." Sibyl handed Frank blankets and a filled hot water bottle, then froze herself, staring at Joe's exposed chest as if truly seeing it for the first time. "Dear _Lady,"_ she blurted.

Frank was so used to Joe's scars by now, he barely noticed them. The phoenix tattoo covered the worst, but not everything: the rope-scars around Joe's neck, shiny white burn-scars, the thin lines of razor-cuts.

Shivering violently, Joe started to come to and fought the blankets that Frank wrapped around him. "Cold." Joe struggled to push up. "Sick."

Frank pushed him right back down. "Stay down. Doctor's coming."

"Don't need doctor."

Frank ignored that. "I need pen and paper, please," he said to Sibyl. "The local church — does it have holy water?" He didn't know what the blood marks meant, but he wasn't going to take chances.

"Don't give credence to those gits," Rowbotham said. "Those marks are nonsense. Scare tactics."

"He's mage-Gifted." Frank wasn't about to mention Joe being an amp; they wanted to keep that quiet. "They knew enough to take him out — Joe, stay down, or I'll sit on you!"

"Try it…"

"Don't tempt me." Frank glared, and Joe subsided, curled on his side, eyes closed and gulping air in short, panting gasps.

"If your belief allows," Sibyl said as the Professor handed Frank a notepad, "I can consecrate water and salt of the Lady."

Not his belief, no. But Frank respected Kris's belief as that of a good friend, and holy was holy, no matter what name God was called. Water, salt, belief — those were key. "Yes, please. And thank you." Frank scrawled the marks out, taking care with the key. The rest: small circles connected by odd squiggles, jagged lines, hints of letters. Frank frowned; they looked familiar, but he was pulling a blank.

Eyes closed, Joe lay shivering under the blankets. In the heat from the fireplace, the blood stank. Sibyl had come back, bearing a bowl of water, a clean cloth, and a steaming mug of tea.

"Chamomile and ginger." Sibyl set everything down on the side table. "Help with the nausea. Warm him, as well." She laid a hand on Joe's forehead, as Frank took the water and started wiping the blood-marks off Joe's chest. Joe started at Sibyl's touch, but Frank pushed him back with another glare. Sibyl was quiet a long moment, then, "Nothin'. Scare marks, only."

Frank hesitated. Normally, the question was rude, but he needed to know. "Are either of you mage-Gifted?"

"Sight. Sensitive. Clairvoyance." Sibyl smiled, just a little. "Some medium — I think you call it spirit-talkin'."

"What they call 'touch-reading', here," Rowbotham said. "Reason I went into archaeology, to see if what I sensed was real."

Sibyl pushed a waste basket near Joe, then she and Frank helped him sit up, enough to sip the tea.

Someone pounded on the door. Rowbotham let the doctor in — Dr. Burelli was a hefty, brown-haired man with horn-rimmed glasses. Blinking owlishly at Joe, Burelli stopped, then shook himself.

"Old Picky's scare tactics," Rowbotham said. "They used chloroform on him, Burelli."

Shaking his head, Dr. Burelli knelt down. "It will only get worse," he said darkly. "Pickenbaugh was the one holding their leash. Hypothermia, eh? Any of that blood his?" Burelli pulled a blood pressure cuff from his bag, but Joe kept pulling away from Burelli's grasp.

"None," Sibyl said. "He don't need none your doctorin', Vincent. Needs only get warm."

"Sibyl," Rowbotham sighed, "let the doctor work."

" _Ow!"_ Joe jerked away again, but the doctor had him in a firm grip as he put a syringe back in his bag.

"Just a sedative," Burelli said soothingly. "You're jerking around too much, young man. You need to lie quiet."

He'd given Joe a sedative, with hypothermia? With _chloroform?_ Panic flared into full paranoia; Frank barely stopped himself from snapping at the doctor, settled for keeping wary watch over everything the man did. Too late to do anything about it now.

"Take him into St. Ives," Burelli said. "Let them keep him for observation."

It sounded sensible, but… Joe was already lapsing back into sleep. "What did you give him?" Frank asked. He kept it calm enough.

"Just a sedative." Burelli had Joe's wrist, timing the pulse.

" _What did you give him?"_

"No need to get shirty, young man. Morphine's a perfectly acceptable —"

"Are you _insane?_ _Morphine?_ "

"Easy, lad," Rowbotham murmured.

Burelli stood up. "No frostbite. His pulse is strong. I still recommend St. Ives. But if you won't do that, then there's nothing more I can do. Chauncey, Sibyl…" He nodded curtly and showed himself out.

Frank held himself in check. Morphine. With hypothermia. And on top of it, Joe had been chloroformed. "We need to get him to a hospital."

"St. Ives can do nothin' nor we can't do," Sibyl said. "By time we get him there, he'll be warm here. Best let him sleep it off."

"Sibyl's right," Rowbotham said. "St. Ives is a good hour away. With the roads as they are and another squall coming in, it'd be more dangerous to move him."

"An ambulance —"

"Would still have to come from Ives," Rowbotham said.

"But there'd be paramedics —"

"Para-whats?" Sybil said.

"A States thing," Rowbotham said to her. "No, lad, we don't have those. Not out here, anyway. There's an experimental program in London, I believe. But nothing here."

Frank clamped down his retort. Getting angry wouldn't help.

But his brain wouldn't stop nagging. Morphine, the Gift-killer. It wasn't a sedative; it was for pain. Was the doctor really that incompetent? Or something more? But paranoia made no sense. They didn't know the doctor or anyone here. Burelli didn't know them. But then, why had Joe been attacked?

"We got a ring," Sibyl said to Frank. "Someone telling us to check our stoop if we wanted our spy to live." She checked Joe herself as she spoke, prying back his eyelids, feeling his breathing and pulse, examining his skin and fingers, then giving him a sharp pinch — Joe reacted to that, despite the drug. "Why was he out there?"

"I don't know." Frank breathed through his panic. "You're a nurse?"

She gave him a sharp look. "Out here, we do our own doctorin' and herbin'. But ayes, I had nurse-trainin' durin' the War. Your brother's not the first to get bitten by winter. He's young. He's strong. No signs of concussion. He'll keep his fingers. Winter's bite wasn't deep."

Despite his paranoia, Frank believed her. The first rush of panic was easing. Right now, there wasn't anything Frank could do that Sibyl wasn't already doing. "I'm going to check outside." Breathing a prayer, Frank laid a hand on Joe's shoulder, then resolutely pushed to his feet and headed for the door.

Outside, the snow was a mess of footprints and blood. Joe's crutch lay a few feet away, at an angle that suggested it'd been thrown. Crouching, Frank studied the mess in the snow with everything that Joshua and Mar had pounded into him about track-and-trail. At least three attackers, one of whom had held Joe down in the snow, and now, looking at the blood, it looked to have been sloshed in a circle around where Joe had lain, not spattered from a fresh kill — and there, yes, the circular imprint of a bucket. Joe's coat was thrown to the side, slashed to expose the lining, the crutch askew nearby. An imprint of another body, curled up. So Joe had gotten at least one of them before being taken down himself.

Under it all was the faint heat-on-bad-sunburn feel that Frank had come to associate with magic.

Three people versus his brother on a crutch. That didn't bode well for the mindset of the attackers. Bullies with a gang mentality who knew how to take out Gifted, who used magic themselves, and who weren't above ganging up on someone apparently helpless. Not good.

Frank made a slow, careful circle around the mess, looking for anything that indicated the US feds might have engineered this, somehow, some way. The attackers' footprints ran off down the road towards the west: still only three, as far as Frank could tell. Scowling, Frank stood at the edge of the driveway. He wasn't about to follow, not with his brother and back-up unconscious in the house.

Besides, Rowbotham had ID'd the marks, so it wasn't as if Frank didn't know where —

Then Frank raised his head. Rowbotham had ID'd those marks really quick, which meant this had either happened before, or the professor was more involved with said cult than he'd let on. Frank didn't want to think that was likely, but he wasn't about to discount it. He and Joe had gotten nasty surprises before.

Rowbotham had been one of Thatcher's colleagues, after all.

Snow was falling again, and the wind had picked up. Schooling his face to calm neutral, Frank retrieved Joe's coat and crutch, then went back inside. Only thing to do was wait for Joe to come to, then browbeat him until he came clean with why he'd gone out alone. Wrapped in blankets, Joe thrashed, whimpering, despite Sibyl trying to soothe him.

Frank knelt by Joe's side, undid enough of the blanket cocoon to free his brother's arms, and caught him when Joe lashed out. Wrapped like that, the blood-smell so strong, and drugged… "Joe, come on. It's me. I'm right here. You're safe. You're okay."

He kept his voice low, calm, soothing, his grip firm on Joe's hand and shoulder and breathing a little thanks that the doctor _had_ shot Joe with morphine. As stupid and insane as it'd been, it'd at least prevent Joe from lashing out with his Gift. Gradually, Joe's thrashing calmed and he lay curled on his side, eyes closed, his grip tight on Frank's hand.

"Thatcher," Joe murmured, shuddering.

Frank tightened his grip on Joe's shoulder. "This isn't going to work," he said to Sibyl and the Professor. "We need to get the blood off him, and he can't be wrapped up like this."

Rowbotham's gaze sharpened. "He said _Thatcher._ _Orrin_ Thatcher?"

Frank didn't answer.

"Enough, Chauncey," Sibyl said. "Here, lad, we get the blankets off, you walk him upstairs. Get him under a warm shower — not hot, just warm."

Joe was awake enough to walk, with Frank supporting him. Without a word, Frank helped him into the shower to wash the blood off — making a complete horror-movie mess of the tub in the process — then back to bed, where Joe lay curled, breathing in deep, shuddering breaths. Frank left him there, went to clean the tub, then came back to ensconce himself by the window. Thick snow was starting to fall, and with the blood mess splattered all over the yard outside, the scene was Currier and Ives held hostage by Stephen King.

A sharp knock on the door. "Frank? I've got wood and newspaper here. Sybil says to build up the fire in your room. The radiators can be cranky."

Frank got to his feet and opened the door enough to take the armload from Rowbotham.

"Do you know how?" Rowbotham sounded concerned. "I can teach you, if you don't."

"I'm fine. We've got fireplaces in the States, too."

"Good lad. I brought more in downstairs. Help yourself if you need it."

Frank carried the armload to the fireplace and knelt by the hearth, focusing on laying the wood in the correct pattern, stuffing newspaper along the bottom, lighting it, and waiting for the wood to catch. It gave his hands something to do while his brain worried at the whole mess. It made no sense. Why attack Joe? They'd just gotten here. Thieves wouldn't bother, not after the fact. It not only hung a big target over them, it also added assault and attempted murder to the charges, if they were caught. Thieves preferred to stay quiet and not attract attention — the good ones, anyway.

"Never saw 'em until they hit," Joe murmured, when the flames had gotten to a decent blaze. "At least three of them."

Frank said nothing. He set the fireplace screen back in place.

"Threatened to cut my throat." Another deep, shuddering breath. "Said they knew who we were with. For us to get out, or there'd be another funeral."

There was the ominous warning, right on schedule.

"And they asked if I knew about the wicker man."

SFSU student council had shown _The Wicker Man_ as part of its Halloween horror marathon, and while the movie had been disturbing, Frank had been sure it was just Hollywood fakery. Up until now, anyway. "They're just trying to scare us."

"Well, I'm scared. Mission accomplished."

Seeing the blood and his unconscious brother had all brought back New Orleans in a swift, sharp blow to Frank's own heart. He'd panicked, he'd frozen, he hadn't been able to do _anything_. "Great Blades we are," Frank said bitterly. "Completely on our own, and we get the crap scared out of us like — _Joe!"_

A pillow nailed Frank square in the face. "Stop it," Joe said, now raised up on his elbows and glaring.

"Joe —"

"That's how they want us to react. They want us to run away from their monster in the closet. _I'm not playing that game."_

Frank's own hands clenched on the pillow. He forced them to relax, breathed out the tension in a long sigh, then stood, brought the pillow back over. "They don't sell baseball bats over here."

"A cricket bat'll break bones just as good. I can adapt."

Quipping like that: Joe had to be okay. "Rest," Frank said roughly. "It's after midnight, you got chloroformed and hypothermia, and that doctor shot you with morphine. You dare get out of bed —" that, as Joe opened his mouth, "— and I'll dump you in the shower again. Set to cold. With ice."

Word for word, one of Joshua's mock-threats. It got a half-smile from Joe. "No wonder I feel like crap."

Frank sat down on the other bed, pulled off his shoes and jeans. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only heavy exhaustion. "You only took out one?"

"I _slipped."_

Frank managed his own smile. "Drake'll have your hide."

"Great." Joe curled back under the blankets. "Give me something to _really_ be scared of." Silence for a long moment, but then, "That whole scene bugs me. Something about it's not right."

"Really." Frank was tired, so naturally _now_ Joe wanted to chat. "I thought being beaten up and chloroformed was _normal_ for us."

"That's part of it. We're here to look at the Grail theft — so? They didn't threaten Rowbotham like that, and he's Gifted, too. We're just a couple tourists. We can't be _that_ much of a threat."

Frank thought that over. "Yeah. It doesn't make sense. If it's about the Grail, then they've painted a huge _We Did It_ sign on themselves."

"Especially since the police are still clueless. Or did they also beat up Scotland Yard?"

"We'd have to ask Rowbotham. But I doubt it."

"Great," Joe sighed. _"Another_ mystery. And here we thought this would be simple…"


	10. Living History

**_A/N: Thanks to BMSH, Leyapearl, Caranath, MoonlightGypsy, SunshineInTheGraySky, Xenitha, Penlew, Barb, JamieHollis, Hmfitzk21x, DuffyBarkley, sm2003495, Jittnbookworm, Robin's Egg, FANHB08, Wendylouwho10, Paulina Ann, and nancy drew 11 for all the reviews & comments! _**

**_# # #_**

* * *

 ** _# # #_**

 _It couldn't be happening._

 _Bound tight against the blood-slick floor, duct tape sealing his mouth, Joe watched in horror as Frank came into the warehouse and Joe shook his head violently, trying to yell with every inch of his being for Frank to run —_

 _Thatcher struck._

Gasping, Joe jolted awake, nearly falling out of bed, but he caught himself over his elbows. His throat was raw and sore; his gut and groin hurt. The bed was strange, the room was strange, nothing was familiar, nothing smelled right, nothing _looked_ right…

A loud, grinding rattle made him jump. Joe choked off his yell, hands clenched on sheets and comforter. The sound repeated, and, finally, Joe saw the shape in the other bed: Frank, snoring.

Memory returned. England. Grail. Professor Rowbotham. Right.

The nightmare still vivid, Joe pulled one of the pillows down and wrapped his arms around it. He wanted Jamie; he needed her. She kept the nightmares away and him on an even keel _._

Breathe. Focus.

The meditation technique the Center counselor had taught him: focus on breathing and nothing but breathing, in and out, slow, regular, deep. The room smelled of burning wood, the sheets and quilts of lavender. Comforting, relaxing. Wind whistled past the window in rising and falling notes, and he could see snow whirling thickly past, even in the dim light from the yard. Gradually calm returned, and he reached for his watch on the nightstand — a little after six a.m, local.

Joe breathed out a quiet laugh. He was awake before Frank, for once, but limping downstairs to grab an ice cube tray would make enough noise to wake said older brother: a strategic opportunity in their ongoing sibling rivalry wasted.

And the bed was deeply soft, thickly comfortable, and warm…

Next thing Joe knew, he was opening his eyes, with the patchy sun shining and dimming through the windows. The other bed was neat and tidy, and the aroma of bacon and eggs filled the room. Coffee. Definitely coffee in the mix, too. Still, first things first: Joe pushed himself up from the bed — the world outside the window was now blanketed in thick snow — and limped to the shower.

Afterwards, he went down to the kitchen, taking care on the narrow stairs so he wouldn't trip. Everything in this country was half the size of home, and it threw his coordination off. In the kitchen, Frank was on the phone, jotting down notes on a small notepad and frowning. At the stove, Sibyl fussed over an iron skillet that spattered and sizzled with frying bacon. Seeing Joe, Sibyl nodded at the table and its platters of English muffins and jars of jam.

"Sit, ducks," Sibyl said. "Cheddar eggs and rasher fine? Beans on toast?"

Rasher? Beans on _toast?_ It didn't sound remotely appetizing. "Uh…eggs and bacon's fine. Can I help?"

" _Sit._ You're guests. And you're helpin' Chauncey, like. Feedin' 'ee's the least I can do."

"You won't say that when you see how much I eat." Smiling his surrender and thanks, Joe sat down and looked curiously at Frank's notepad: a drawing of a large old-fashioned key, curly spider-like symbols, and lots of cramped notes as Frank tried to keep up with whoever he was talking to.

Joe glanced up at Frank, who covered the mouthpiece and said "Tag", before returning to scribbling notes.

"He's callin' your people Stateside." Sibyl scooped steaming eggs and sizzling bacon onto a plate and set the plate in front of Joe. "We didn't have the books he needed." Sibyl sniffed. "Not _that_ sort, never."

"Well, they're useful." Joe ran the time-difference in his head: just after one a.m. in San Francisco. Hopefully Tag had still been up when Frank called. "We have to know what something is before we know what to do about it."

Sybil hmph'd. "Solutions can be simple without suchlike."

Joe took a cautious sip of the coffee, barely stopped himself from making a face. Instant. Ugh.

"So much for that," Frank said as he hung up. He sat down with an aggravated sigh and pushed the notebook towards Joe. "That's what was on your chest last night. According to Tag, the squiggles are from the Necronomicon." Frank tapped a triangle with crossed arms and terminating dots. "That one's supposed to summon C'thulu."

Joe's mouth quirked. _The Necronomicon_ was a fictional creation of H.P. Lovecraft for his horror stories, but some fantasy geeks had published their own versions as jokes. "If a fanged octopus shows up in my bed, I'll let you know."

"Tag said she's been running into folks who think it's real," Frank said.

Sybil gave them a hard look. ""If you dismiss things so quick, then you're not as smart as that Association claims. Belief can fuel many nightmares into reality."

"We know," Frank said. "But we're not about to give them more power by taking them as serious as they want us to think they are."

"Wow," Joe said. "You sounded just like Tag, there."

"She's been a bad influence," Frank said dryly. "The key stumped her, though. She'll look through her books and call us back. You didn't happen to bring those pamphlets? I'm wondering if there's anything in there that matches this stuff."

"Pamphlets?" Sibyl said.

"One of our friends. He's…uh…"

"Gullible," Joe said.

Frank sighed. "Yeah. He's on an occult kick. He wrote to Pickenbaugh and got all sorts of pamphlets —" Frank broke off as Sibyl snorted. "I know, I know. But if there's anything in them on these marks, I'd like to know what those people think they're trying to do."

"I gave them to Tag. I didn't think we'd run into them." Joe shook his head. "No such thing as coincidence."

At that point, Professor Rowbotham trudged in the back door, shaking snow off his scarf and wooly balaclava. "Snow's started up again. I — ah — told our constables about your misadventure last night. They'll be on the lookout, I believe the Yank phrase is, eh?"

"Maybe tell Scotland Yard, too," Joe said.

"Whatever for? Oh…ah…no. They're not like your telly says. The Yard does for London. They only get called out if our locals are out of their depth, so to speak."

"Dad did tell us that," Frank said mildly, to Joe. To Rowbotham, "Have they released the crime scene yet? Because we'd like to go in and look around."

Rowbotham turned that confused look on Frank. "Released…?"

"Finished with it, I mean," Frank said. "If we could see where that Grail was and let Joe get a look around for magic…"

"Only the Grail?"

Uh-oh. "We were only told about that," Joe said. "There was more?"

"Everything," Rowbotham said. "Ah — they overlooked some of the photographs and mannequins. I must have forgotten to tell your father about the rest."

"Photographs?" Frank said.

"Just - ah — the ones from Salem. Good shots of the town and two grave sites. I have a separate section in the museum on those trials — had, I mean."

"Maybe the more important question," Joe said, with a glance at his brother. "Which photos were taken? That's a weird thing to steal."

"The rare ones. Daguerrotypes of the — ah — Fox sisters, a few other Spiritualists. Photos of Crowley, Mathers, Gardner — the rogues' gallery, I called those. I even had one of Dorothy Clutterbuck." His litany was broken by a snort from Sybil, and the Professor sighed. "Well, supposedly, anyway. As for the rest…well…best to show you the catalog."

None of the names had meant anything to Joe. "Something wrong?" Joe said to Sybil, as the Professor clumped upstairs.

Sybil smiled tightly. "My man should keep to his Arthur myths, like. _Witch artifacts,_ my eye. Old rubbish, more like. As for Clutterbuck, well, I won't say anything against a dead woman, for it's maybe only a dirty old man's imagination. Sensationalism buyin' into the gullibility of fools."

Joe did not want to step into an argument between a wife and husband. "My lady," he said, in tones of deepest respect — well, as much respect as he could manage with eggs and bacon in front of him, "maybe we could talk to you without your husband around —" Joe broke off, as Sybil snorted again. "Did I say something wrong?"

"You Yanks, with all your _Lord_ and _Lady_ nonsense — that's for the _nobility_ , ducks. Not us poor farmers bum-deep in sheep shit and barleycorn."

"Tag warned you," Frank said, smiling, to Joe. "I heard her warn you. How much are you going to pay me _not_ to tell her you messed up anyway? She's Wiccan, American-style," Frank said to Sybil. "She says the _Lord_ or _Lady_ stuff is nothing but ego talking."

"Sounds sensible. Nah, no need to be embarrassed. You'm's just tryin' to be respectful. But yes, we should talk, before you both dig yourselves too deep —" Sibyl stopped, as Rowbotham came back in, carrying a massive ring-binder stuffed full of papers in plastic sleeves.

He thunked it onto the table. "There. Witchcraft, Druids, Spiritualism, the O.T.O., Crowley's crowd, Golden Dawn — all of it, numbered, photographed, and written up, per university, historical, and insurance requirements. Have at, lads."

"Take that mess to the lounge, Chauncey," Sybil said. "Unless you want grease all over your precious catalog. Let them eat in peace."

Frank was grinning. "What?" Joe said.

His brother waggled his finger between Sybil and Rowbotham. "You and Jamie. In about thirty years."

Rolling his eyes, Joe turned his attention back to breakfast.

Two helpings and three cups of coffee later, he and Frank sat in the toile-covered living room paging through the binder. Sybil had settled into an armchair, sewing, a small smile flickering around her mouth while the Professor rattled on about various items in his collection. He'd had a bewildering amount of stuff. Some things Joe recognized, but most of it, he had no idea what they could possibly have been used for. The Arthurian stuff was fascinating — the small gold cup Nip had mentioned, ancient swords engraved with Norse and Celtic designs, shields with coats of arms, statues and bas-relief, illuminated vellum, Pre-Raphaelite paintings of Morgan le Fey and the Lady of Shalott, brass and gold torques — but the witch stuff…

"Bellarmine jugs?" Joe said. Seven pages of the catalog depicted old pottery vessels shaped to look like bearded men.

"One of the best collections in England," Rowbotham said. "They used such containers to turn curses back at the witches who cast them, you see. They'd boil up urine with brimstone, add an iron nail, maybe some fingernail clippings and old teeth —"

"Who'd want to steal _that?"_

"Oh, the urine's long evaporated," Rowbotham assured him. "Mostly."

Tightly-corked glass bottles filled with knotted hair, wands carved to look like — Frank started laughing, and reddening, Joe hurriedly turned the page — supposed crystal balls (which looked like fishing-net floats), candle-holders made of deer-hooves, antique divination boards, horned helmets, foliate and stag masks, athames with hilts of bone, woodcuts of horned men, hag-stones, a slab of rock said to be an altar stone, and odd metal things with names like "boot" and "heretic's fork", supposedly secret manuscripts of the _Ordo Templi Orientis_ , old books of witch trial records. There was too much here to memorize. The best he and Frank could hope for was to be generally familiar with it so they'd recognize something that _might_ belong to the Professor's collection.

"No tarot cards?" Joe said.

"It's just a card game, lad," Rowbotham said dismissively. "They've only — ah — been used for divination since the 1700s, but not widely. Now here…you Yanks should know these." He laid a finger on a page. "Genuine Voodoo Dolls, straight from your New Orleans. One of my colleagues kindly found them for me. A friend of your father's, too, in fact. Orrin Thatcher, DPhil and DEd. A most learned man — he was quite enthusiastic about my witch project. I sell out of his book every few months in the museum."

As Rowbotham rattled on, Joe looked at his brother. Frank rested his chin in his hands so that his fingers covered his mouth as he stared at the page. Rowbotham sounded too much like Chet, and not in a good way.

Sybil stopped sewing, watching them.

Joe wasn't going to say it. Not now. "You should have told Joshua," Joe said instead. "He's a practitioner."

"Oh?" Rowbotham said.

"His aunt's a priestess." Joe couldn't take his eyes off the page of dolls. If those had been _made_ by Thatcher…or his protege, Claire…

"Queen," Frank said. "That's what they're called, Voodoo Queens. Alma hates the title, though."

"A true _Voodoo Queen?_ You've _met_ her? She really is — ah — as in, true Voodoo —?"

" _Chauncey..."_

Rowbotham caught himself and coughed, as Sybil gave him a special wife-to-husband glare. "Ah…sorry. I'll call Mr. Thomas again later. You boys said you wanted to look over the museum, and the light's best in the morning."

"There's no electricity?" Frank said.

"Oh, there's lights. Not much in the witchcraft areas, though — for the spooky effect, you see."

Joe didn't know what to expect from searching the museum. If Scotland Yard and Interpol had gone over it, there likely wasn't going to be anything physical for him or Frank to find, and those two agencies wouldn't share their findings with two wet-behind-the-ear detective wanna-be's. Despite the icy wind and deep snow, the Professor walked them to the museum on the outskirts of town on the narrow harbor road, which was divided down the middle by a lively, burbling stream crossed at three points by foot-bridges, its banks walled in stone. Joe couldn't believe cars actually drove on the road — it looked too narrow — until someone honked at them from behind and Rowbotham herded the Hardys onto the snowy verge, then raised a hand in greeting at the driver as the car passed.

"Arthur Sears." Rowbotham nodded after it. "He's in service up at the castle. Good man. The castle's worth the bob for the tour, too. It's been in the Craighead family for centuries."

Set back near the tree-covered hillside, the museum was a sprawling white-painted brick building that looked more like a cottage than a museum, with a squat, blocky statue of a witch on her broomstick by the door, all now covered in mounds of snow. A row of tourist shops and a visitor center lined the road in front of it. Rowbotham unlocked the museum door, handed Frank the keys, then simply left them to it.

"Is it just me," Frank closed the door, shutting off the cold wind, "or is the Professor a little…well…"

"Nutty for witch stuff?" After pulling his stocking hat off and shaking the snow off it, Joe accepted the padlocked duffel bag from Frank, now that they were off the ice. The bag held basic supplies for magic and detective work, with some not-so-basic things. "For someone who hates the local nut-jobs, he'd buy any old junk, as long as it had a good witch story with it."

"Not at all like anyone we know, huh?" Frank said, smiling.

Inside, the building was solid gray stone with massive, smoked-dark wood beams crossing the ceiling, with a fireplace in the corner of the entry room, where the cash register was, along with rows of coat pegs for visitors and a glass case filled with touristy curios and books. Bundles of dried rosemary, sage, and lavender hung from the beams; blue and green witch balls wrapped in fishing net glittered in every window.

As Frank hung their coats on the pegs, Joe studied the space: no magic in this room, but energy thrummed above his head and, oddly, below his feet. He shifted uncomfortably; whatever was below felt _off_. "Nothing on this floor. Something major's upstairs, though. Or was. And down _there_."

"The thieves knew enough to leave all that." Frank nodded at the glass case as he and Joe headed up the narrow stairs. "And the witch balls."

Joe snorted. "Fishing floats. I'm surprised he doesn't have dream catchers to top it off."

"Probably hasn't crossed the water yet."

"Let's tell him it's something the Salem witches learned from the Wampanoag." They stopped on the second-floor landing to survey the immediate room — nothing. Joe shook his head at Frank and they continued through the maze of rooms and narrow corridors towards the farthest exhibit-area. _Something_ thrummed ahead of them. "We clue in their tribal artists, they get their foothold in the market, and we'll clean up."

"Wrong tribe, wrong region, wrong history. Mar'd scalp you. Twice."

" _If_ she found out. And she won't, because I'd claim it was all _your_ idea if you tried selling me out, Older-Bigger-Stronger-Brother of Mine. And she'd believe me, because I'm the innocent cute one. Hold it." Joe planted his crutch in front of Frank, stopping him before he could cross the threshold of the farthest room.

A wooden sign painted with heraldic dragons hung on the wall outside the doorway, proclaiming _The Magic of King Arthur_. Beyond that, to the right and in the center of the room, stood a large glass case with a velvet-covered stand, smashed and broken. The other cases along the walls were likewise shattered, and glass fragments littered the wood floor.

"That must've made a lot of noise," Frank said.

Thank you, Mr. Obvious. "Stay here." Joe handed the duffel to Frank and eased into the room. "Keep watch."

"Something's here." Scowling around the room, Frank shifted from foot to foot. "I've got that sunburn feeling."

If it made Frank fidget and _admit_ it, it was more than a feeling. But Joe said nothing. He stared at the shattered large case and, mindful of the broken glass, moved his hand around it. The whole area thrummed; his hand felt as if it was in full sunlight. He blinked, shaking his head as his eyes watered; the light in the room was suddenly too bright. "Residue," Joe murmured, fascinated. _"Wow…"_

"Residue? From the _Grail?_ "

"No clue. Since we didn't get to see it before it was stolen…" Joe paused, as memory caught up. "Last night," he said slowly, "before I got attacked. I met one of the locals — the Hadley guy Sybil told us about. He said the Grail _glowed_. The way he talked, the Professor could see it, too."

"So it's strong enough to leave residue on stuff like that. If the residue _is_ from the Grail, anyway." Running a hand through his hair, Frank stared at the un-magical, un-special display cases of glass and metal. "And the Professor just puts it out here."

"Maybe the thieves didn't know about the magic. It's gold. If they melt it down, that's a couple thou, easily."

"Well, I can't believe they were just after gold when they stole a bunch of jugs filled with pee. Safe enough to come in?"

Joe nodded.

After handing the duffel bag to Joe, Frank made a slow circle around the room, checking over the display cases, the windows, the walls, and the floor and making extensive notes. "Any other magic? Protections, thief stuff, anything?"

"No clue." Joe had dug the camera out to take pictures of the room and display case from each of the corners. "The residue's interfering really bad. Until I can tell what it is and where it's from…"

"You're going to trance down."

"I'll have to." Joe set the duffel bag and camera down. "Ground me. I'm not sure what's going on."

It was something they'd figured out, as they'd experimented and nailed down various Gifts to specific forensic rules. While Frank wasn't Gifted himself, he gave Joe a grounded, stable backing to hold him steady, a solid foundation that allowed Joe to do more without as much effort. It wasn't unique to them — Kris and Joshua balanced each other the same way when they worked any ritual magic — but Frank being mundane had gotten the other Blades talking. Joe wasn't sure why everything he and Frank did was so surprising. They only reasoned things out to logical conclusions and practical applications, after all.

Frank pulled out one of the candles and hefted it with an inquiring look at Joe; Joe hesitated, but nodded. He didn't want other magic fields interfering, but if _Frank_ was having issues with the residue, the added protection of a ritual circle was needed. After they'd swept a small area clear of the shattered glass and lit the candles on the quarter points, Joe eased himself down to the floor. The brothers sat back to back, Joe facing the case, Frank the outer wall, as Joe relaxed and let his shields slip.

Relax, breathe, _focus…_

Suddenly, he was _grabbed._

He landed in dirt and dead leaves. Shaking his head, dazed, Joe blinked up — it was night, a clear moonless sky, the air thick with woodsmoke and the smell of blood and roasting meat. Breathing deep and slow, Joe held very, very still — he'd been shoved up against a tree, his hands bound behind his back, his legs tied, and he was surrounded by swarthy men in armor: bronze cuirasses, red tunics and leather skirts, bronze greaves, with open-faced helmets, and short, thick swords.

Roman soldiers.

Other men, women, and children surrounded him, bound and shackled, some weeping, children crying, others looking stoic and resigned, a few glaring at their captors. The prisoners were fairer-skinned, hair matted and tangled with blood, wrapped in wool cloaks and breeches dyed in bright colors.

It wasn't right. Something was wrong. Stretching to the limits of his bonds, Joe felt through the dirt and leaves. There should be something else here. Something…underneath…no, _someone._ His brother. Where was his brother…?

 _This can't be real._

A shadow fell over Joe. An old, gray woman garbed in black robes and a linen cloak covering her head stood over him, staring down.

…and then Joe realized he had no clothes on. His skin was covered in swirling blue tattoos, double-spirals, horses, and stags.

The wind picked up, icy cold and flecked with snow. He shivered, trying to draw his knees up for warmth, trying remember those other thoughts…something important… _someone…_ someone close…

The old woman gestured. Two of the nearby soldiers grabbed Joe and hauled him up, dragging him towards a cleared circle. In the center lay a flat rock, and on top of that sat a gleaming cauldron.

Joe stared. He knew those patterns, the interlacing circles, the salmon, the leaves. The Grail. He hadn't thought it was so _big._

Wait…it'd been stolen. He and Frank had…what?

 _Frank._

 _This isn't real!_

Music rang in his head: a high metallic keen of sorrow, fear, and anger that drove out all other thought. Behind him, the other prisoners cried out, only to be silenced by the heavy clubs of the soldiers.

The soldiers holding Joe untied his arms, but before Joe could react, they grabbed him and forced Joe to his knees, clubbed him when he resisted, and stretched his arms out on the rock in front of him, holding him motionless. Joe yelled, fought, was clubbed again, knocking him senseless against the stone, his head ringing with the Grail's keening metallic wail.

A sword gleamed above him in the torchlight, then flashed down —


	11. Discovery

_**A/N: Thanks for all the comments, favorites, & follows! To answer a few questions: both the Professor & Sybil are Gifted; Prof is a touch-reader, Sybil clairvoyant, Sight/Sensitive, & spirit-talking. Yes, Gifts can be enhanced any number of ways, including location & ancestry & other Gifts. There won't be any teeth extraction - that scene in the original book was just silly: NO ONE gets a wisdom tooth pulled with just one shot of local anesthetic & one pull, then gets up with no ill effects at all.**_

 _ **(Edit: aaand evidently the title ain't the problem & it's happening to other tales. Man.)**_

 _ **On with the tale!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

" _Joe!"_

Frank twisted on his knees as Joe collapsed, convulsing. Frank grabbed him —

— was grabbed and _thrown —_

Somehow he hung on, one hand splayed against the rough wooden floor, the other gripping Joe's arm in smoke-filled darkness that stank of blood, unwashed bodies, and burnt meat.

 _Darkness?_

His head felt thick and dizzy. He was on his knees, surrounded by enormous dark trees and grinning men in bronze breast-plates. The only light was the huge fire in the middle of the clearing, the only sounds the screams of children and harsh voices shouting commands, all in languages he didn't know. When Frank looked down, Joe was —

 _Blood…too much blood…_

It wasn't real. _It wasn't real._

Wrenching his gaze away, his grip tight on Joe's arm, Frank squeezed his eyes shut. Focus. _Focus._ With his other hand, he groped frantically for the wooden floor and the grainy charred knothole he'd been poking at. It had to be there, somewhere, _anywhere_ — there. His hand hit the rough-edged knot; a splinter jabbed into his finger. He jerked reflexively, only to fumble into a puddle of melted wax, still oozing and hot…

Without hesitation, Frank grabbed for the candle that he _knew_ was there.

His hand landed on flame and hot wax.

Pain scorched his palm. With a yell, he dragged on Joe's arm and slung his brother around with a crunch of broken glass —

With a yell, Joe lashed out, then jerked up, staring wide-eyed at his brother. Frank let go, and Joe nearly fell face-first to the floor, only to catch himself and sway over his hands. As the rush of adrenaline drained away, Frank sat there, shaking from reaction, his head in his hands, watching as Joe stared at his own shaking hands, both brothers breathing hard in the aftermath of terror and dream.

"You okay?" Frank glanced down at the broken glass: rough shiny pebbles, not shards. Tempered. Thank God, or else both his and Joe's hands would've been shredded. He looked at his own hand: splattered with wax with a reddened tender spot on the base of his palm and another sore point pricked with blood from a wood splinter.

Brushing at his hands and the glass, Joe nodded.

"What did you _do?"_

"Not…Thatcher. Definitely…not Thatcher."

" _Joe. What. Did. You. Do?!"_

Resisting the urge to shake the story out of his brother, Frank waited, as he carefully worked the splinter out of his hand. After another minute or so, when Joe still hadn't said anything, Frank slapped the notebook against the floor in front of his brother. Joe startled at the noise, blinking at Frank and finally _seeing_ him.

"Spit it out," Frank said. "What happened?"

Bit by bit, he dragged the story out of Joe, jotting it down in neat shorthand. About midway through, Joe finally shook off the mental haze he was in, giving more and more detail without Frank needing to prompt him. Finally Joe faltered, and shook his head.

Frank bit his lip. An execution. That was what Joe dragged them into. "All that from residue. But you're not a touch-reader. _I'm_ not. What _is_ that thing?"

"Tag said the cup was Celtic." Joe made a face. "But those were Roman soldiers. They didn't do human sacrifice."

Frank stared towards the broken display case. "In a way, they did. They'd chop off their prisoners' hands and feet and let them bleed out. _Sacer_ , they called it. Giving them to the gods." That one detail convinced him that the vision — whatever it was — had been real. "I don't get it. Why use the Grail?"

But now Joe stared at him. "You…you _saw_ that. You were _there."_

"We weren't anywhere," Frank said firmly. "We were _here._ It was a hallucination. A waking dream. Like what Rathbone pulled." Rathbone had been a rogue 'path, and had engulfed Frank in pure nightmares when he'd rescued Nancy Drew that past summer.

"But it was _real!"_

" _Joe."_

"How did the thieves do something like that? That thing can't be alive. It can't be. No, wait, it can't be the thieves. They wouldn't waste energy leaving a trap like that behind. But how…?"

"You're babbling," Frank said. "Get a grip already, or you'll get a bucket of snow dumped down your back." It was the quickest way to bring a mage-Gift back to the here-and-now: a sudden, overwhelming shock of sensation. Not that Frank ever took advantage of that — not on people who weren't his brother, anyway.

Shaking his head, Joe rubbed at his temples. "Sorry. I couldn't get anything else. No signature, no other magic, nothing. The residue's just too strong. If it _is_ residue."

"Well, I can't see thieves bothering to set up something like that. We agree there." With a groan, Frank got to his feet and went over to a window, opening it just enough to scoop some snow off the sill and apply it to his palm to soothe it. "Like you said, it's too much work and no point to it. Wiping the signature would've been tons easier."

"Maybe," Joe said slowly, "they knew what that thing could do and used it to cover their tracks."

It was one of the ways to hide magic: bleach it out with other magic or another strong energy field. Frank said nothing, thinking.

"Which leaves the problem of how the thieves managed to grab it. If that Grail can shove you into dream-state like that…"

"Just assume they figured that part out and focus on finding it. Up to checking the rest of the building?" When Joe nodded, Frank helped him up, shouldering the duffel bag as Joe got balanced on his crutch.

"We should check with the local cops, later," Joe said. "Just to let them know the Professor's hired us to look into it."

"Feeling insanely overconfident today, huh?"

"Yeah, well, it's a dirty job, but someone's gotta do it."

Joe snarking: the world was back to normal. They worked their way back towards the staircase, stopping in each room to make notes and diagram the layout, examining everything both physically and magically for anything out of place, no matter how small. Frank kept a weather-eye on Joe, noting every time Joe took too long to respond or got distracted. Maybe he should do the snow-down-the-back, just in case.

Though that would wreck havoc with the wooden floors. Frank didn't want to upset the Professor, after all.

Finally, when they reached the ground floor again, Frank steered his brother into the restroom to splash water on their faces and to get a bandage on his own palm. The water was ice-cold, clearing the last of the haze from Frank's head, and Joe was noticeably more alert.

Not that it mattered. The ground floor was clear and cleaned out, save for the left-behind photographs and the souvenirs in the front case, denuded mannikins, and display signs. But Frank and Joe went through the same meticulous routine of note-taking, diagram-making, and photographs in each room, no matter what. Entire cases sometimes hung on one solitary piece of evidence that others had overlooked.

In the farthest room from the entrance, a large free-standing triptych had also been left behind: three wooden panels covered with a gaudy painting of a naked man and woman (certain body parts tastefully obscured by badly-painted foliage) sitting on either side of a winged satyr with oversized horns. The satyr's face was partially obscured by an inverted pentagram with its horns forming the top two points, but the satyr's "certain parts" were most definitely _not_ obscured.

Pausing in his notes, Frank couldn't decide if the satyr was supposed to be male or female. Its genitalia were obvious, but the thing also had prominent breasts and a rounded belly that looked pregnant. Writing down _that_ description would make his notes sound like certain notorious movie theaters in San Francisco. Frank decided to leave the details to Joe's photographs. Much easier. Especially if Aunt Gertrude ever found their files on this case — Frank could legitimately shove the explanation off onto Joe.

"I'd love to hear Tag explain that," Joe said.

"You and me both," Frank said.

"I don't get it, though." Joe tapped a wall plaque. "This room was a timeline of what people thought witches looked like. Masks, statues, costumes — why steal _Halloween_ costumes?"

"You're right. It doesn't make sense."

"And as much stuff as Rowbotham had — how'd they get it all out of here without being seen or heard? It'd take too long. Too much energy to keep up."

"No magic, I take it."

"Absolutely nothing." Frowning, Joe stared around the room. "I keep checking for traces, and there's just _nothing._ "

"The Grail interfering again?"

Joe shook his head.

"Wiped?"

"That'd still leave signs that something had been here."

"Vladimir's didn't." Vladimir had been…someone…they'd tangled with shortly after arriving in San Francisco.

"Vlad just hid them really good, that's all. Once we figured it out, it was obvious."

"So I'll ask the obvious question," Frank said. " _How?"_

Joe slowly shook his head again. "Maybe we're over-thinking this. Take all magic out of the equation. Forget it even exists. And ask the same question."

Frank looked out the window towards the stream and the shops on the other side. "It is rather isolated. So no one would necessarily hear a break-in. The thieves could've brought a truck up — or two — and loaded everything in. But driving it through the streets…someone had to see it."

"Unless folks are used to trucks coming and going at odd hours." Joe was staring into space. "With all the farms around here. I mean, we had trucks going by all the time in Bayport."

"But didn't the Professor have security out here? You'd think with the Grail, he would."

"Small-town stupidity. Like Aunt Gertrude and the back door."

Frank smiled. After she'd moved in, Aunt Gertrude had never locked the back door of the Hardy's home, despite many warnings from Dad — to her, _small town_ meant you could trust your neighbors. Then someone _had_ broken in and tossed Dad's office, and Aunt Gertrude had turned unreasonably paranoid for weeks afterward. "Don't forget human _cupidity_ ," Frank said. "Bribery. The thieves paid someone off."

"We're also forgetting this is part of a larger pattern, with all the other thefts," Joe said. "Maybe we should look into the other thefts."

"Don't complicate things. We're just here for the Professor's collection. Stay focused."

"But if they used magic for _those_ thefts, they might not have been as careful. Or they haven't been careful, period, and it's either the Grail's influence here, or they haven't used magic, period. And that's assuming it's the same thieves."

With a sigh, Frank rubbed at his forehead. Joe was right — that was the problem. If it _was_ connected, the whole thing was too big for two independent detectives to handle. An international ring, maybe. Such things were usually only solved with cooperation between Interpol and police agencies across the globe. But the pieces to their part might be intertwined with the larger whole. _Might._

Focus.

"Basement next." Joe cracked a grin. "I'm still feeling something down there. I'm sort-of-maybe-possibly-almost certain it's not a demon, though."

"Just for that, _you_ go first."

"You're all heart. If it _is_ a demon, I'm coming back to haunt you, Exorcist-style."

"That'll be hard to do if I'm dead, too."

"Yeah, right, bring logic into it." Joe eased down the narrow stone stairs; even Frank had to watch his footing, as the stone was worn smooth and slick. "What is it about spooky stuff that they have to use dark rooms in the basement? I mean, if I was a witch, I'd be using my powers in Hawaii. Or I'd at least turn the heat up."

" _Joe."_ Frank tapped a wooden sign on the wall:

 _ **The Dungeon**_

 _Inquisition Chamber_

 _Witch Trials: Crime & Punishment._

"This must be where the Professor kept the torture stuff," Frank said, then immediately wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

The grin vanished. Joe stared at the sign, then slumped back against the wall.

"C'mon." Frank nudged him, when the silence didn't let up. "It's all been stolen, remember. There's nothing here."

"Then what am I picking up?" Joe snapped, then stopped and breathed out hard. "Sorry."

"It's okay," Frank said quietly. "I thought you knew. A good quarter of that catalog was medieval torture stuff."

"You mean all that weird metal stuff I had no clue about," Joe muttered. "Jugs filled with pee, naked paintings, whips and chains — is it just me or is our stuffy British Professor just a bit _kinky?"_

Frank clasped his brother's shoulder. "It's not just you. And suddenly, I'm really, really glad Tag didn't come with us."

They moved though the archway and deeper into the chilly, damp basement. The air stank of mildew, the gray mortared-stone walls embedded with thick iron rings with dangling chains. Another archway in the far wall led to a cramped room, its ceiling crossed with thick, smoke-blackened wooden beams, and the floor's mortared with oddly-carved stones of dirt-smeared white, gray, and black. Display signs and empty glass cases marked where the exhibits had been, along with discarded mannikins lying on the floor. Then Frank's foot hit a rough spot and he glanced down: the stones were old tombstones, chipped and worn to near illegibility.

"This really isn't making sense," Frank murmured as he sketched out a diagram of the room. He couldn't help a shudder; skeptic or not, the atmosphere was getting to him. "How'd they get it all out of here? Some of those things were pretty big. A rack can't be easy to dismantle."

When he didn't get an answer, Frank looked back at his brother. Eyes closed, Joe had stopped dead center of the first room, hands clenched, breathing hard.

Considering what the displays had been… "Blood magic, I take it?" Frank said.

To his surprise, Joe shook his head. "Sight." His voice was hoarse, ragged. "I'm seeing flickers out of the corner of my eyes. Not blood magic, not quite hauntings…just…it's like what happens when you step in wet sand, right at the surf line, right before your footprints disappear." Joe blew out a long breath, visibly trying to get control. "The stuff that was here — it had to be steeped in it. Blood, pain. All that. It left impressions in…in…everything. The physical's gone, but the stains are still here."

"I understand," Frank said.

"No. You're not getting it. That's _all_ I'm seeing. There's no other magic, Frank. No signatures, nothing. Just _that."_

"The Grail residue's not hiding it?"

"No." Firm, definite. "It's not like upstairs. It's nothing like that. Nowhere near."

That was a relief. If the thieves weren't using magic, or if their magic was so weak that they didn't bother with it, Frank would happily deal with that. It would be a welcome change after some of the things he and Joe had handled these last few months.

"You, too, huh?" Joe said.

"Yeah." Something caught Frank's gaze, just past the doorway into the next basement room. "Joe — over here."

The wall was broken, chipped, and crumbling, revealing the gray stone of the basement to be concrete, not real stone. Something had been gouged out of the wall, leaving a rough-shaped hole larger than Frank's hand. He ran his fingers along the gouge, tracing the shape: a rough oval at the top, a smaller square below it, with a thick, crumbling line between…

"Frank…" Joe said, "…it looks like a key."

…as something cracked above their heads…

…and they were plunged into darkness.


	12. Rock The House

_**A/N: Thanks to Xenitha, FanHB08, sm2003495, Guest (for whom I changed the title back - thanks for the info on the problem!), Caranath, BMSH, and DuffyBarkley for the reviews & comments! There are more stories planned & in the works. Check my profile for the listing of what's being worked on.**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Frank jumped; Joe lost his balance and fell against him. Frank barely caught him before they both hit the floor.

For a long moment, they stood in near-total darkness. Slowly, Frank's eyes adjusted: there was just enough light filtering down from the stairs to make out the vague shapes and shadows of the display cases and mannikins.

"Great, we're both de-lighted," Joe murmured.

Thwacking his brother across the head would, unfortunately, make noise. Frank held still, listening.

Something thumped upstairs; someone yelped.

Pressing a hand against Joe's shoulder in a silent _stay here —_ with that crutch, Joe couldn't move quietly in a dark, junk-strewn basement with an uneven floor _—_ Frank eased back towards the stairs, feeling his way past the displays and scattered mannikins.

Metal clattered upstairs, somewhere on the ground floor, followed by _shush'ing_. At that, Frank halted. Whoever it was didn't know Frank and Joe were in here, then, or they wouldn't have stuck around after making so much noise.

Something shoved him from behind. Stifling a yell, Frank turned, then breathed out in an exasperated sigh. Right behind him, Joe held his crutch in such a way that it was obvious Frank would get whacked if he tried to leave his brother behind.

Well, Joe had made it across the basement without Frank hearing him. Frank gestured, and Joe eased up the stairs without a sound. Frank leaned forward, just enough to peer further into the ground floor entry room: no one. Whatever had made the noise must be in one of the far rooms.

Joe right behind him, Frank eased over to the archway across from the basement stairs, careful to stay to the left of the jamb. Nothing that he could see at that angle, save the front wall and windows, but there was another clatter and another _shush'_ ing noise, followed by a fierce whispered argument.

" _I told you it wasn't th' bleddy lights!"_

" _Shhh, crease it!"_

The voices were right on the other side of the wall; they sounded young. Frank looked back at his brother, cocked his head towards the noise, and mouthed, _"Magic?"_

Joe shook his head.

Frowning, Frank considered. It couldn't be the original thieves, or any thieves, for that matter. In this small village, everyone likely knew the place had been cleaned out. But the intruders definitely weren't here with permission and sounded as if they didn't want to get caught.

Time to get loud.

Frank stepped out into the doorway and bellowed at the top of his lungs, " _WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?"_

Simultaneous yelps and metallic clatters were followed by panicked scrabbling, only for whoever it was to get tangled up with each other and crash, sprawling, to the floor.

Scowling, Frank glared down. _"Well?"_

Two boys — they couldn't have been more than fourteen — stared up, wide-eyed, then scrambled to their feet with fists clenched. They were scrawny, the taller dark-haired and dark-eyed, his right eye blackened, the other boy blond and blue, both buzzcut and both dressed in patched jeans and sweaters with sleeves that barely reached their wrists. Frank gave them mental points for bravery, but crossed his arms, waiting.

"Y'know, Scotland Yard's already gone over this place," Joe said, behind Frank. "That usually ruins the fingerprints. They're pretty thorough."

Spilled all over the floor at the boys' feet was a mess of black powder from a broken baby-food jar, along with thick make-up brushes and a roll of transparent tape. Interesting. "Not to mention breaking and entering's against the law," Frank said.

"We didn't break in, you," said the dark-haired boy. "Door was open."

"You're with the thieves!" piped up the blond.

"Thieves don't have keys." Frank jangled his coat pocket. "And we wouldn't bother being here if we were, because everything's already gone."

"You came back to get rid of evidence," said the blond. "Ol' Clemo can't do job proper 'less it has beer in it. Everything t'him is always dreckly, dreckly — _ow!_ "

The dark-haired boy had kicked the blond's calf.

"Who's Clemo?" Frank said.

"'E's the chief constable," the dark-haired one said. "Fancy not knowin' that."

"Yeah, well, that proves we're not thieves," Joe said. "Because thieves would have to know who to watch out for, right?"

"Professor Rowbotham hired us. So _we're_ here with permission, and we know _you_ aren't. So right now, you've got two options." Frank noted the glance the boys shared and the shift in their balance. "Don't even _think_ of running. Because we won't bother with old Clemo, got it?"

"What's th' options?" the dark-haired boy said. The blond muttered something _,_ but shut up when the other kicked him again.

"First option: you tell us your names. And why you're dusting for prints. Why you want to catch the thieves, I mean," Frank amended when the boys rolled their eyes. "I'm being _nice,_ because I'm assuming you're too smart to be thieves. For the moment."

The boys looked at each other. "What's the second option?" the dark-haired boy said.

"If you really are smart, you won't find out," Frank said.

At that, Joe turned away, staring up at the ceiling.

Scuffing their feet, the boys thought that over, looking at each other. It was plain they didn't want to say anything in front of Frank and Joe.

"I don't know about you," Joe said to Frank, "but I'm starved. Let's take these two to whatever passes for McDonald's around here and get something to eat before you beat the answers out of them."

"Gawky emmetts," the dark-haired boy muttered, just loud enough for Frank to hear.

"And because we don't know our way around here," Joe went on, as if the boy hadn't spoken, "we'll pay for lunch, if you show us where a good place is. If we like what you tell us, I won't let my brother here show you the second option. Deal?"

"That's Granny Ellerbee's," the blond said, only to be elbowed by the dark-haired boy.

"Fine," Frank said. "Clean all that up and come on. We'll wait outside."

Two young jaws dropped. "Giss on," the blond blurted. "We could do a runner!"

"Then you don't get to eat, do you?"

The boy looked away.

"We're not stupid. The door's the only way in or out. And if you go through a window, we know your faces and it's a small town. Understand?" Without waiting for an answer, Frank stalked outside, Joe right behind him.

"You're really awful at playing _bad cop_ , y'know that?" Joe said, grinning.

"You saw that black eye." Frank watched the street and the falling snow, not answering his brother directly. "And we could use ears on the ground. No one pays any attention to kids."

"They're a bit too old to be _kids._ And I'm thinking everyone pays them toomuch attention, if you know what I mean."

Frank sighed. "Yeah."

A few minutes later, the two boys shuffled out of the museum, the blond with a rolled-up pillowcase slung over his shoulder, and they were both in muddy woolen coats. Up close, the scrawniness was even more pronounced; the dark-haired boy came up to Frank's chin, the blond a couple inches shorter.

"Lead on." Frank nodded ahead, then nudged the boys forward when they hesitated.

"Mind telling us your names?" Joe said. "I hate calling folks _Hey you."_

"Day," the blond said. "'Ee's Collin. My brother. An' Clemo's our da, so you better not be kidnappin' us. We seen all _The Professionals_ so we know — _ow — Coll, stop it!_ "

The dark-haired boy, Collin, snapped something that sounded like _chee-chonter_ , and Day subsided into sullen silence.

Fighting to keep the grin off his face, Frank glanced at his brother.

"My brother here's a pain, too," Joe said to Day. "All older brothers are. It's in the rules. So your dad's the chief of police?"

Day mumbled something, but nodded.

"Good," Frank said. "You can take us to him after we eat. It's not about you," he added, when the boys looked at each other with identical panicked faces. "Yet."

"What's _The Professionals?"_ Joe said.

That set Day off again — some TV show like _Mission Impossible_ , if Frank understood correctly. The chatter lasted until the boys stopped in front of a small white-stone storefront, its window displaying a zodiac chart, jars of herbs, and glass-covered platters of cookies and cupcakes. A chalkboard placard out front had _Today's Pasties: Turmut Tates & Mate, Licky, Squab _chalked on it, and a painted wooden sign above the door announced the shop as _Mary Ellerbee's,_ with a strand of large Christmas lights strung along the ledge above the store window.

Frank pushed the door open and gestured the boys in. Inside, the shop had white-plastered walls and a heavily varnished, dark wood floor; blackboards behind the pastry display case announced lunch specials of _Oggie & Salad, Toasted Cheese & Ham, Soup: Smoked Bacon & Potato, _another listed types of something called "cream tea". Whatever all that was, the place smelled good: fried onions, baking bread, bacon.

There were a few other people eating, but conversation stopped dead when Frank and Joe came in.

"All right there, burd?" someone called out, and Joe broke into a grin.

"Hey, Nip. They turned you loose today?"

A stocky young man with curly brown hair and light eyes pushed to his feet and came over, grinning as he grabbed Joe's hand in a casual shake. The people at the closest tables eyed Nip and Joe before relaxing and turning back to whatever conversation they'd been having.

"My brother, Frank," Joe said. "Frank, Nip Hadley." Frank caught the slight stress Joe put on the name, but didn't know what Joe was referring to. "He handles the…uh…Tre Marrak horses. Did I get that right?"

"Got it in one." Nip shook Frank's hand, then nodded back towards his table; a pretty brown-haired girl about Frank's age sat there, watching with obvious interest. "Takin' me sister to tea, all proper, like. What're you doing with these two balls?"

Day fidgeted; Collin was scowling. Frank pushed them towards an empty table in the corner. "Go on, sit down. We'll be over."

"We were going to talk to their dad." Joe lowered his voice a bit. "About last night. Our dad's a cop, too, and…well…we asked them to show us around."

"Heard about what happened," Nip said. "It's all over the village. Your da's a _constable?"_

"Was. NYPD — New York City."

"Retired now," Frank said. Nip seemed friendly enough. "He's friends with Professor Rowbotham."

" _Niiiiip."_ The brown-haired girl stood by the door, her head tilted, arms crossed and tapping her foot.

Nip rolled his eyes. "Sisters." Then, quieter, "Got somethin' to tell you later, baby Yank. Right on, then."

His sister grabbed Nip's arm and towed him out of the cafe. Conversation had started up again, though some still watched Frank and Joe, even after they sat down with the boys.

"You didn't say your da's a policeman," Collin said.

Frank waited until Joe made a quick hand-sign — meaning the small magic that made people uninterested in their chat was in place — then Frank leaned forward to fix the boys with a stare. "Because real detectives don't shoot their mouths off to just anyone."

" _You're_ —" Day gulped whatever else he'd been about to say.

Frank smiled. He'd felt the table shake: Collin had kicked his brother again.

At that point an old woman with a polka-dot bandana around her head swept up to their table. Gray-white hair poked out from under the bandana; one of her eyes was filmed with a milky cataract. "You two vellans," she said, glaring at Day and Collin. "Minching off school again, you? Or out beggin' from the emmets? I told you t' leave my customers be, you."

"They're with us," Frank said.

The woman's gaze turned on him, and she broke into a toothless grin. "The Yanks visitin' Chauncey, and aren't you a handsome one, then. Listen to this old mother — don't bother with these two. They're trouble, and the worst of it, at that."

"We'll take our chances," Joe said.

She looked Joe up and down. "Well. You'm's a real pretty one. Bringing the spriggan sproil into my own shop and no manners about you. You'll be wanting your leaves read, then?"

Joe and Frank looked at each other. "Leaves?" Frank said.

"She reads the grushans," Day piped up. "Granny's a witch, she is. That's Granny Ellerbee you're talkin' to and no mistake —"

At that, Ellerbee turned another fierce glare on Day, who shut up and shrank down in his chair. Collin shoved to his feet, trying to get between Ellerbee and Day.

"Don't, please, he didn't mean anything by it. He's a clattermouth. He's always sayin' nonsense —"

"Excuse me," Frank broke in. "We just want lunch. We don't want trouble."

"We also don't care for people who threaten kids," Joe said.

Ellerbee turned her glare on Joe. "Tellin' me how to mind my business, then, you?"

"We just want to eat in peace," Joe said. "But we'll take our business elsewhere."

Even with the cataract — because of it — Ellerbee's glare intensified. Frank's skin itched as if ants were crawling on him, but he forced himself to stay relaxed. Joe hadn't moved, meeting Ellerbee's glare with an unchanging, unimpressed expression.

The crawling sensation vanished. Her eyes widening, Ellerbee jerked back, but then caught herself and leveled a ferocious scowl at Joe.

"We'll leave." Joe sounded utterly bored as he levered himself to his feet. "The boys said this was the best place in town. A shame — everything smells really good. C'mon, Frank."

Keeping his expression neutral, Frank tapped Collin's shoulder and nodded towards the door. As they left, Frank and Joe kept themselves interposed between Ellerbee and the boys, and out on the snow-covered street, Frank steered the boys towards the Rowbothams' home.

"No," Collin whispered. "We can't go there neither. We _can't._ Granny 'botham's a witch, too."

"If she is, she's a good one," Joe said.

Frank leaned down to speak quietly in Collin's ear. "You know what brave is? It's being scared out of your wits, but doing the right thing anyway. Detectives can't do their job if they let fear tell them what to do."

Collin gulped, hands clenched, but kept moving.

"You weren't scared to take us to Ellerbee's," Joe said.

"She ain't there, mostly," Collin said. "Wenna works the tables. Her girl, I mean. Granny just cooks an'…an'…reads the grushans."

In front of the house, Sybil was shoveling snow off the walk, but hadn't made much headway. Without a word, Frank picked up the second snow shovel by the front steps and nodded at Collin. "You take Mrs. Rowbotham's shovel and start from the other end."

"Go on, ducks, call me Sybil," Sybil said to Frank, as she eyed the two boys. "An' what have we here?"

"We were going to treat them to lunch at the local cafe," Frank said carefully. "Mrs. Ellerbee took exception."

"Hmph." Mouth pursed, Sybil disappeared back inside and came back out with a broom, which she thrust at Day. "Here, you. Sweep off what you can. Come 'round back when you're finished."

Neither Collin nor Day moved. But after Sybil stumped back inside, Day squeaked out, "That's _blood!"_

"Someone played a nasty joke last night," Frank said firmly. "It's why we need to talk to your dad. Start shoveling. It's fake." He had no way of knowing for certain, but no need to freak the boys out, and he made certain to target the bloody snow himself, edging Collin and Day towards the clean stuff.

"You can talk while you shovel," Joe said, leaning on his crutch and watching. "Why were you two getting fingerprints in the museum?"

Day opened his mouth, but shut it at a scowl from Collin. "How do we know you're what you say you are?" Collin said.

Frank looked around. No one in obvious sight, and Joe flashed a quick _all clear_ hand sign. Frank pulled out his wallet and his employee ID for AHRD Investigations & Security as Joe did the same — not a real private investigator's ID, not yet, but just having the Blades' ID was a step closer to that dream. They handed the IDs to Collin and Day; both boys' eyes widened.

"We're not full P.I.'s yet," Frank said. "But that's who we work for. Our father's a real detective, and he's friends with the Professor. We're over here for Dad, as a favor to the Professor."

"Hardy," Collin said, looking up. _"Fenton_ Hardy? _He's_ your da?"

"Last time we checked," Joe said.

"He's _famous!"_ Day squeaked. "They used him fer _The Professionals!_ Fer the Yank stuff. As a…a…"

"Con-sul-tant. We two been readin' 'bout 'im an' his cases — 'ee saved the _Queen —_ "

"An' 'ee's done all kindsa stuff with th' Yard an' MI5 —"

"Woah," Frank said. "Hold on —"

"We need to have another talk with Dad, I see," Joe murmured.

"But we need to talk to you," Day said, "because no one'll talk to us an' everyone laughs an' no one believes us when we say we wanna be detectives an' Da's just all _dreckly, dreckly_ and Ma's —"

"Ma don't care," Collin said.

"— yeah, that, like. Please, please, _pleeease…"_

"Okay, okay," Frank said, "let's get this walk cleaned off first. Joe and I'll be happy to talk to you."

He'd never seen any kids shovel snow so fast or so enthusiastically. But then Frank sighed. Kids. Right. He and Joe weren't that much older than these two, but right now, Frank felt those years as a massive weight.

"About the fingerprints," Joe said again.

Collin and Day looked at each other, then Collin dropped his gaze, attacking the snow as if he held a long grudge against it. "There's a reward for findin' all that stuff," Collin said. "For givin' information, like. We thought, we find somethin' everyone missed, what cracks the case, we get th' money and use it for uni. But if _you're_ here…"

"Detectives need local help," Joe said. "We're new here. You two know the territory, we don't."

"Besides, we get paid pretty well," Frank said, raising an eyebrow at Joe; Joe nodded. "And it's a pain to deal with international tax laws." Frank paused. "How about…you help us. If we solve this, we'll make sure you get the reward. Deal?"

Day started to say something, but Collin elbowed him. "An' how do we two know we can trust you?" Collin said. "You say all that, we two give you the help, then you just up and leave."

Frank was impressed. The boy wasn't letting his awe get in the way of actual thinking. "Is there a lawyer around here?"

"Solicitor," Joe said.

"Solicitor, right. We can draw up a contract."

"We can ask the Professor to do it for us," Joe said. "If he and Sybil witness it, it's just as legal."

"Just as legal as what, now?" The front door had opened. Professor Rowbotham stood there in an oilskin coat and thick rubber boots, mopping at his head as he looked at his shoveled walk. "You didn't have to do this. You're guests."

"We needed to talk to our new assistants," Frank said.

The Professor looked Collin and Day over, and thankfully, didn't smile. "I see. Clemo's boys, aren't you? Sybil says — ah — tea's up. And she baked some pasties, special. Come on in and get warm, lads."


	13. Feel Good Inc

_**A/N: Thanks for the reviews & favorites, everyone! No, Collin & Day are not in the original book. If folks are looking for a fun, cheesy, grade-Z horror/occult read (especially if you've got an MST3K sense of humor), you'll want to pick up the original; the Satanic Torture Ritual alone is 100% (unintentional) comedy gold.**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Disturbed, Kris hung up the phone. The symbols that Frank had described were worrying. The Necronomicon ones were bad enough — put enough belief behind _anything_ and it was possible to make it real — though between Frank's dead-pan sarcasm and Joe's snark, they'd skewer any attempts to use that nonsense on them. But combined with the attack on Joe…and what had happened in NYC…in the hands of someone who knew what they were doing, someone _intelligent_ , it could turn deadly, fast.

The key, though, matched _too_ much. Key symbolsheld a variety of interpretations, across a lot of different cultures, and Pagans tended to grab and use whatever worked. Actual keys used in spell-work could represent the buildings they were part of, or several different deities, or could be symbols for any number of desired results. Then there was the _cimaruta,_ charms made with keys and holed stones, but those were part of Italian folk magic, not English.

Chewing on her pen cap, Kris went back over her notes, what Frank had said, what she'd told him. That wasn't quite right. Italian folklore — well, that had a solid Roman base, and Romans had taken over England, at one point. Roman myth was stolen from the Greek — the Romans had taken everything that hadn't run away fast enough — and many current Pagan groups called on those pantheons. But a key…?

It'd been a long day, and it didn't help that it was after 1 AM. But now she was wide awake, a faint _something_ tickling the back of her brain. Back at her bookshelves, Kris pulled down every book on Greek and Roman mythology she had, along with the pamphlets they'd gotten from Chet on that so-called "witchmaster". It didn't take long, and Kris felt like kicking herself for not remembering this during Frank's call.

Too much stress, that was it. Too much running between Wings, the Center, classes, and everything she was watching as a Blade, and she'd been trying to keep up too much on too little for too many months now. And Vão. And Rafe.

No use whining about it.

At least Chet wasn't part of the "everything she was watching", at the moment. He'd gone home for Winter Break, having left the day before Frank and Joe had gone to England. Thankfully, Chet believed her excuse of needing more time with his grandmother's "Book of Shadows" and let her keep it for the holidays.

As she pored over her notes and the open books, realization finally sunk in: Hecate, the triple goddess of the crossroads and protector of witches and sorcerers. One of her titles was _Klêidouchos,_ Keeper of the Keys — the keys to the Underworld, the land of the dead. Almost every Pagan group in the US called on her now, thanks to the Goddess chant.

 _Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inanna…_

The attackers had marked Joe with blood, had marked the symbols in blood, and marked the Rowbothams' house with blood.

"… _when He seeth the blood upon the lintel, the Lord will pass over the door, and will not suffer the Destroyer to come in unto your houses to smite you…_ _"_

Years it had been — nine _years —_ and she could still hear Papa intoning the book of Exodus as he'd marked the doors of the squats and run-down apartments that they'd lived in, and he'd marked them with blood: his own, Mama's, hers. Protection, he'd claimed, and looking back on it, Kris wondered if he'd actually told the truth, for a change. Not all blood magic was evil, after all. Quite a few traditions used it, either animal sacrifice (ritual slaughter, with the beast cooked for a feast after) or self-sacrifice. Even the Blades used it in life-keying.

But if Joe's attackers had been calling on Hecate…and Joe had encountered Samedi, the Voodoo _loa_ of Death, several times already…

That was the problem with gods. People forgot that _good_ didn't mean _nice, evil_ wasn't the same as _mean_ , and that gods were just as complex as the humans who called on them, with their own agendas. The One had multiple faces, depending on what She was being called for — _all gods are One God_ , _all goddesses are One Goddess, and all are faces of the One,_ a Neo-Pagan saying ran — and some of those faces were downright terrifying.

Kris glanced at the clock: almost 2 AM. Joshua would be asleep. Waking him wouldn't do any good — there wasn't anything that could be done right now, after all. She could be overreacting, too. Frank and Joe weren't helpless nor naive: the CIA had learned _that_ lesson. Still…

She headed back out to the kitchen and called the Rowbothams. Frank and Joe were out checking out the museum, but Sybil took the message to have them call Kris back.

"They said one of their friends was of the Lady. Would that be you?"

 _Of the Lady_ — of the Goddess? "Yes'm," Kris said carefully. "I'm with Coven Spiral here, one of their…um…Dianic hives. We're kinda figuring it out as we go."

She could hear the smile in Sybil's voice. "Quite. Tell me the whole of your message, ducks. I won't faint, I promise you."

If Sybil was implying she was Wiccan, from what Kris knew of the British traditions, _I won't faint_ was an understatement. The other end of the line was quiet as Kris went over what she'd found, careful to stress that it was just a guess on her part, but given some of what had happened to Joe…and there Kris paused, unsure how to explain Samedi and New Orleans, or even if she should.

"I know the American paths are different," Sybil said slowly. "You're immigrants in a land not your own, and you combine many disparate paths into one. Not so here. The Greeks have little power in this land."

"Um…but I've got stuff from that group near you. They're using a mash of Gardner and Crowley, with a lot of our stuff thrown in. Our stuff's a lot of Roman and Greek and the Romans were there way back, right? And Gardner's group called on Diana as their Lady."

"That is a point." Sybil sounded thoughtful. "A shame you didn't come with them, _cheel._ "

Before Kris could answer that, Sybil had hung up.

Kris spent a restless night. She'd moved Purr-oh and Frito back to her rooms so she could keep a better eye on them while Frank and Joe were away. All three kittens were comfortable, purring weights on the bed — when they weren't playing _pounce-on-feet-under-the-blankets,_ anyway — and Shell tucked herself under Kris's chin in a warm, furry curl. But even the kittens did little to allay the odd dreams and tossing and turning.

At dawn, Kris finally gave up the fight and got up. After a shower and her usual bowl of Cheerios and bananas, she went down to the commons to wait, and when Joshua showed up at his usual eight a.m., he stopped on seeing her.

"You look terrible. Bad night, _chè?_ "

"We need to talk." Kris got to her feet and followed Joshua into the war-room.

Technically, it was the Blades' office, but Joshua hated the word "office". The filing cabinets had been moved to an unclaimed closet, and Joshua had bribed Jamie into doing stained glass windows, then installed shelves as a weekend group project, and commissioned a large map table from a local artisan, along with worn sofas, area rugs over the floor and fabric art on the walls to deaden sound, a fridge stocked with sodas and local beer, and one of the new automatic coffeemakers. The net result was a comfortable space where the Blades could talk and not worry about the dangers of other Center residents overhearing.

No serious discussion could start before Joshua had gotten his coffee. As Joshua cussed out the recalcitrant coffee-maker as proof of the reality of Hell, Kris snagged a tamarind soda from the fridge and settled into the sofa to wait.

Coffee finally in hand and looking much more awake, Joshua listened as Kris went over what Frank had said about the attack, showing him the pamphlets, the symbols, the key drawing, what she'd found in the books, and her own reasoning. When she finished, Joshua sipped his coffee for a long moment, studying her.

"I wanted to send you with them," Joshua said finally. "But if I send you over there now, right after they've reported an attack, it'll look like I think they can't handle it."

Kris hadn't said anything about going over there. She'd been thinking it, true… "It's not that. It's…um…you know how the feds took over the peace movement?"

Joshua nodded.

"We think they're doing the same with us. The pagan groups, I mean. A lot of Spiral folks are into grass roots stuff and…um…some of the UK groups finally went public, too."

"You're wondering if MI5's taking a page from the CIA's book."

"Yeah, that. That stuff Chet had…" Kris shook her head. "They have to be watching them. They'd be stupid not to. And…um…if the feds tapped Fenton's phone, they'll know where Frank and Joe are. And they could use their connections with British Intel…"

"— to slip in a US operative to track possible subversives. I know how the game works, darlin'."

"But they'll be focused on Frank and Joe. If I go over now, I'll be under the radar. I mean, they won't know we've got someone else watching them for tails and they won't know that we know they don't know, especially if I stay low and Frank and Joe don't know I'm there — what?"

Joshua was grinning. "You're learning _._ Keep it up. Problem, though, is that Americans stick out over there. And I'm not sure the feds _are_ tailing Joe. Especially since Frank hasn't reported anything. There's been no word from our moles."

"Um, if Pickenbaugh's group has us in it, they won't. Our feds, I mean. Um…won't stick out, I mean. He's been recruiting over here. Frank said they're aiming for rich and bored people."

"Rich, bored, and lacking anything resembling sense," Joshua said dryly. "I hate saying it, darlin', but your crowd seems to get more than its fair share of fruit loops."

That rankled. "Jim Jones was Christian. And Manson said he was Jesus. And the Moonies are Presbyterian. And Shiloh and the CoGs and the Friends Fellowship and Divine Man…" Kris paused. "Um…does Nixon count?"

Joshua laughed. _"Touché."_ Then he was studying her again, his head tilted.

Kris said nothing. She knew that expression: Joshua was making a decision.

"Before they left," Joshua said, "you were pretty set against going over there. What you're saying is true, but I get the sneaking suspicion there's more. Talk to me, partner. What's changed?"

She didn't answer.

"Vão and Rafe bothering you?" Joshua leaned forward. "I know they're hanging around. They've been pretty blatant with the chicks. Lori's crowd. Don't think I haven't noticed."

Face hot, Kris shook her head. Bothering? Not really. Pointedly ignoring her while surrounded by chattering, infatuated girls — that didn't count. Not like Joshua meant it, anyway.

"Got your passport updated?" Joshua was carefully not looking at her.

"Last month."

Joshua looked up at one of the paintings: the Archangel Michael, glowing blue, red, and gold in a patch of sunlight. "I'm wondering if I should go with you. I'm not sure I can handle a couple weeks of people touching my hair, though. Rowbotham oh-so-carefully made it clear that Griffinmoor was…how did he put it… _old-fashioned."_

"Touch your _hair?"_

He blinked at her, then cracked up. "Jesus wept… _chè_ …thank you. Thank you. That father of yours, and you still surprise me. Thank you."

He'd explain, eventually. Kris waited. Papa had ranted about Black folks being the _sons of Cain_ and other nonsense, though Kris had never seen anything like what Papa claimed. After she'd run away, after Mar had brought her into the Center and Joshua started his campaign of befriending the little runaway, Kris had been fascinated by Joshua's Black-Power afro — he hadn't worn dreads then — but she'd never tried to _touch_ it. _She_ hated anyone touching her without asking. It'd never occurred to her that anyone would _want_ to.

But she'd still said a lot of wrong things to Joshua back then, in total ignorance. He'd been very patient in explaining how wrong they were, but this had never come up.

"I mean, I could kind of see it with Cari," Kris said slowly, trying to figure out what she meant and unsure how to put it; Cari was another of the Blades. "She's got that really cool 'fro. It's like me and Shell — I can't _not_ touch Shell, I mean, 'cause she feels like a bunny. But…I mean…it's someone's _hair…"_

"That's exactly it, _chè._ Like you and your cat. It wasn't that long ago that folks like me weren't considered human and folks like you thought it was their God-given right to do whatever they wanted to folks like me."

Kris finally figured out the words. "Um, you mean…like the grown-ups did, when I was a kid. Because they thought they could. They always wanted to _touch_. And they got angry when I wouldn't let them. That's what you're saying?"

Joshua fired a finger at her. "Exactly. Something about being in power gets you thinking that other people's feelings don't matter. Only what you want does."

How had the conversation gotten on this line… "Um…about Frank and Joe…"

"Maybe I could put up with that crap for a couple weeks. I could wear a sign: _Meet A Black Person, a Dollar a Touch_.I'd clean up."

"Um…"

"I know, I know. I'd stand out." With a sigh, Joshua stared out the window.

"That's not what I meant!" When Joshua raised an eyebrow, Kris went on hurriedly. "I mean, we can pull a double blind. Like we usually do. If we think the feds have caught on, let them see you, and I'll still be in neato —"

" _Incognito."_

"Yeah, that. C'mon, Josh. You need a break — you need to stick your foot in. You told me that."

Joshua was grinning again. "You mean _keep a hand in."_

"Um, that, too. So take a vacation and just kinda be taking it where Frank and Joe are kinda working. I mean, Frank said that you said the groups over there were thinking of starting up something like us. So you _need_ to be there, because you know what all the Blades get into and all the other stuff and all that —"

He held up a hand. "No, _chè._ As much as I want to, I can't. A double-blind won't work if I'm not hidden to start with —"

"Mouse-trick! You're hedging, Josh."

"— and it'd _really_ look like I didn't trust them to do the job, if they realized I was there, too. Not just them, but the UK folks."

"But we're not there to do their job! We're there to do _our_ job. Um, keeping the feds from the Gifted, I mean. I mean…how would it look if Frank and Joe got nailed by the feds because they're concentrating so hard on the job they're supposed to be doing? Or if they can't do their job because they're too busy dealing with the job they're not watching for?"

Joshua just looked at her.

"That'd really look bad," Kris said. "Like we don't care about our own. And it'd give them a chance to see _that_ side of it. The UK folks, I mean. The fed side. Um. Like that."

"All right, all right." Joshua held up a hand. "Even when you're not making sense, you make too much sense, partner. And that's a definite symptom that I've been warming the desk too much." He looked around the war-room, then sighed. "Hopefully Downs won't mess things up too much while I'm gone."


	14. Dirty Harry

_**A/N: Anyone else having issues with uploading docs to FFNet today? Anyway, thanks to Paulina Ann, DuffyBarkley, FANHB08, leyapearl, BMSH, Caranath, Xenitha, sm2003495, and the ever-anonymous "Guest" for the reviews & comments! Guest: as far as Chet being a mole, in one of Sherri Tepper's books, when someone objects to being called "fat", she's told that the gods prefer nice plump sacrifices. muahahahahaha...**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Of all the things Joe had encountered in England so far — electric outlets all wrong, appliances too small, cars too small, roads too narrow, houses too cold, words and phrases he didn't understand — all of the strangeness finally narrowed down to a piece of food.

Joe and Frank herded Collin and Day through the back door, then Sybil ordered all of them to get their wet shoes and coats off and go wash up. As they came back into the kitchen and Collin and Day hesitantly sat down at the table, Sybil pulled out a pie from the oven and set it down on the table.

Joe looked at the pie. It looked back.

Day brightened. "Stargazy!"

"It's not Bawcock's Eve," Collin said suspiciously.

"We've got Yanks visitin', ducks," Sybil said, a hint of mischief in her voice. "Can't let them go home without tryin' our best, ayes?"

It looked like a pie. It had a top crust, anyway, nicely golden and steaming. But the four sardine heads poking through the crust to stare dead-eyed at the ceiling definitely ruined that particular classification.

"Are those sardines?" Frank eyed it with interest.

"Oh, you know it?" Sybil said.

Sitting down next to Collin, Frank nodded. "A friend's grandmother used to make it. She used herring, though. A tail piece, if you don't mind, please."

"Don't tell me you _li—_ " Joe cut himself off before the rest of that rude sentence made it out. "Don't tell me you've eaten this. Not in _Bayport_."

"That's what you get for avoiding Iola," Frank said, grinning. "Old Ma Morton was from Cornwall. Her parents were, I mean. Chet loved the heads."

The mental image of Chet — roly-poly, overweight, eat-the-diner-closed _Chet_ — with fish heads sticking out of his mouth collided with the memory of Chet in the ridiculous Egyptian headdress, and Joe choked on a laugh.

Professor Rowbotham coughed. "Ah — there's brown bread and ham on the counter and pea soup on the stove," he said, nudging Joe in that direction. "With good Somerset cheddar and _tesyn_. I don't — ah — care for the pie, either."

"It doesn't care none for you, that's the right of it," Sybil said.

He was going to spend all his time here asking the same question, Joe was sure of it. "What's _tesyn?"_

"Smoked goat cheese," Rowbotham said. "One of our local farms does a smashing good job of it. The pickles are Sybil's own recipe."

Okay, those were recognizable. Joe limped towards the counter and started piling ham, pickles, cheddar, and mustard on thick slices of wheat bread. His stomach had settled from the magic and whatever had happened with the Grail, and saying he was starved was a massive understatement.

"We've been living in San Francisco for months now," Frank said. "And he's _still_ squeamish about food."

"Squeamy?" Day said, with his mouth full, and got a head rap from Sybil. He swallowed hugely. "'Bout _Stargazy?"_

"He likes _kimchee,"_ Joe said, to no one in particular. "Fermented cabbage," he explained, when everyone but Frank looked blank. To Collin and Day, "Fermented means _rotten."_

"It's _pickled_ , Joe," Frank said patiently.

" _Rotten."_

"Find anything in my museum?" Rowbotham said.

Joe hesitated. He didn't want to talk openly in front of the boys, not after the attack last night and definitely not after the scene in Ellerbee's cafe. He did not want them in the line of fire. Not that it had ever stopped him and Frank at that age, but that just proved his point.

"We found fingerprints," Day said proudly. "Smudgy ones, all over th' glass, like. Show 'em our rough book, Coll."

Frank was between the boys, so Collin didn't have a chance to kick his brother silent. Rolling his eyes, Collin rummaged through the pillowcase to pull out a ragged notebook and drop it in front of Frank.

But Frank looked up at Rowbotham. "They say there's a reward for information on the theft."

"Ah…yes." Rowbotham looked uncomfortable. "There is. My collection's a substantial one. I'm — ah — offering a five hundred pound reward. But — ah — there's a larger one for the Trewissick Grail, you understand. The British Museum and Oxford University are offering it jointly with Scotland Yard."

"Five thousand pounds," Sibyl said.

Joe choked. That was roughly _ten thousand dollars,_ half of the needed bond for the detective agency he and Frank wanted to open when they finished school. But he saw Frank look at him, and Joe nodded slightly, just enough for Frank to see. In a small town like this, from what little the boys had said, Joe doubted they'd ever get a chance to earn such an amount, and he and Frank knew firsthand what college cost.

The Association had given Frank and Joe their chance and a hand up. Here was a chance to pay it back.

"Professor, if you would," Frank said, "we want to set up a contract with these boys. That if we do find your collection or the Grail, Collin and Day get the rewards."

For a moment, the Professor floundered. "Lad, are you — ah — sure? That — I mean, yes, their father is the chief constable here, but they're not —"

"We're sure," Joe said, before the Professor could shove his foot any deeper into his mouth.

"They're in a position to give us a lot of help. Local information is valuable in an investigation. What that _means_ ," Frank leveled his gaze on Collin and Day, who were gape-jawed, food forgotten, "is that you two follow our orders. If we tell you to leave, you _leave._ Understand?"

The boys nodded. Sibyl was scowling.

"You're both witnesses," Frank said to the Professor and Sibyl. "That makes the verbal contract binding. Professor, if you could write something up on paper so we can sign it later, please?"

"Ah — of course," the Professor stammered.

Joe set his full plate down on the table — along with a steaming bowl of the thick pea soup sprinkled with crisp bacon — and peered at Collin's notebook across the table as Frank opened it.

"It's a real detective's rough book," Day said proudly. "Collin organized it an' everythin'."

Even upside down, Joe could read the hand-written page headings in block letters: _Crimes, Suspects, Clues, Theories —_ no, he wasn't going to laugh. When he and Frank were kids, they'd had similar notebooks based on all the stories they'd read, until Dad had explained the day-to-day realities and scut-work of investigation.

"It's okay, ayes?" Collin said.

"Very organized," Frank said and passed the notebook over to Joe.

Joe paged through it, careful to keep his face blank.

 ** _CRIMES:_**

 _theft of Grail & witchy stuff_

 ** _SUSPEKS:_**

 _OTC_

 ** _CLUES:_**

 _fingerprints, broken glass, big fehther_

 ** _THEERYS:_**

 _Picky's nutters done it._

"'OTC'?" Joe said. Frank had resumed eating, evidently enjoying that monstrosity masquerading as _pie_.

"Ol' Picky," Day said. "Him an' his nutters at Tre Hadley. Call themselves some fancy name."

 _"Ordo Templi Celtia."_ Rowbotham snorted. "Pure bollocks."

"Yeah, them," Day said. "Picky's nutters."

"Pickenbaugh," Collin enunciated it in sing-song exasperation. "Called 'imself a witchmaster and worshipped the devil, like. Stealin' stuff's just like what else they do. An' all th' stuff Ol' Man…uh…I mean…what th' Professor got stolen was witchy stuff. An' the Grail."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Joe didn't want to discount the boys. Their dad was the chief constable, so they had to have overheard things. "It's good to be that certain right from the beginning. You must have really good evidence to back that up." Slow wind-up. Now for the fast pitch. "Do the fingerprints match anyone?"

"Da won't check," Collin said. "He says too many folks in and out, public place, so fingerprints be useless, like."

" _Dreckly, dreckly,"_ Day muttered.

"What's this about a big feather?" Frank said.

"It was found on the second floor, in the Grail's display," the Professor said. "A large purple and white feather, similar to the griffin on the Griffinmoor crest."

"Griffin, my eye," Sybil snorted. "A dyed goose feather."

"Our local constables have it, I believe," the Professor said. "Interpol and Scotland Yard insist it's from my collection, and that I've simply forgotten it. Bah!"

"A real clue, ayes!" Day said.

"Quite," the Professor said, smiling.

Joe and Frank looked at each other, a non-verbal _you-no-you_ match that Joe knew he'd lose, but he had to go through the motions as a matter of principal. Finally, Joe sighed. "Day, I don't want to be mean, but don't look for _clues_. Clues don't exist, not like you're thinking."

Day actually stopped eating. "They don't?"

How to explain… " _Clues_ gets you thinking like stories," Joe said, as Frank got up and headed into the living room. "It's not like that. I mean…" Joe leafed through their notebook. "I don't see any diagrams or notes. Nothing that describes the scene or everything you saw. You only focused on the obvious. Investigating is a lot more than that. _Everything's_ at the scene's important. It all fits together, because it has to hold up in court. _"_

"Here." Frank came back, set one of his notebooks in front of Collin, and opened it to the diagram of the Grail room. "Like this. We have to note everything, no matter how small. We can't tell what'll end up being important."

The Professor and Sybil watched with open interest.

"The cops miss stuff," Joe said. "Or they're so sure they know who did it, they ignore whatever doesn't fit."

Collin looked down at that.

"You have to keep an open mind. Sometimes we get hired to prove someone innocent." Joe tapped the _Suspeks_ page. "How do you know the real thieves aren't someone else? Maybe they knew about…about those nutters. If everyone thinks that group did it, the real thieves get away."

"We're no good, that's what you're sayin'," Day muttered.

"If we thought that, we wouldn't work with you," Frank said. "We definitely wouldn't give you the reward money."

"You're new, that's all. Me and Frank were the same way when —" Joe caught himself before the condescending _when we were your age_ made it out, "— for our first case, I mean. But we had Dad helping us. You'll learn."

"But you're gonna make us do the cakey stuff," Collin said. "Because we're _cheeldern."_

"Joe just told you we don't know what's… _cakey_ …and what's not," Frank said. "Sibyl, if a couple guys want to sit and — I don't know what you call it here, but we call it _hang out_ — just sit and talk and listen, maybe drink a few Cokes…"

"Cokes?" Collin said.

"Coca-cola," Joe said, and both Collin and Day made faces.

"Nuh-uh," Day said. "Tizer!"

"Whatever you call it," Frank said. "What would be a reasonable cost for a couple hours?"

Sybil shrugged. "A few quid."

"Pounds," the Professor added. "Similar to — ah — your 'bucks' for 'dollars'."

"Those are the ones with Isaac Newton," Joe said, grinning, as Frank pulled out his wallet.

"Your first assignment," Frank handed Collin a five pound note, and Collin's eyes widened, "is to go wherever a good place is to do just that. Sit and listen to people talk. Don't do anything obvious. Don't stare at people and don't act like a spy. Get a soda and play checkers or something."

"But what d'we listen for?" Day said.

"If anyone's talking about the theft," Frank said. "What they're saying. Any gossip about it. Gossip can be dead-on accurate."

"Anything that sounds…well…odd," Joe said. "It's hard to explain. Anything that catches your ear that doesn't sound right."

"Like…if someone has a lot of money sudden," Collin said slowly. "Givin' big gifts, like."

"You got it. And you and Day'll be _better_ than me and Frank. You know everyone 'round here. And you won't stand out."

"Right-o!" Day pushed to his feet as if to dash out the door, but was yanked to a halt by Collin.

"Be polite, _dobeck!"_ Collin faced Sybil and the Professor. "Thank 'ee for lunch, like. Was…was lots better'n Ma's."

"Thank 'ee," Day repeated, scuffing his feet.

"Hmph," Sybil said. "You'll need an excuse to tell your tales to these two. Come 'round for lunch, then, while you're working for them. You can chat private here."

Both boys' eyes widened, both nodded, with Collin giving Sybil a half-bow, then they ran to the living room to retrieve their shoes and coats before leaving. Joe held his peace, focusing on his sandwich and soup as Frank did the same to the so-called pie, then waited out the silence as the Professor and Sybil looked at each other, obviously wanting to say something.

"Two hellers, they are," Sybil said. "Their Ma's a drunk. And it's well-known their Da's…well…"

"Lazy," the Professor said bluntly. "Inclined to take things at surface valuation and no deeper. What the boy was saying — _dreckly_ — is a good description of him."

"Dreckly?" Frank said.

"Ah — the best translation is _later, later_."

"Like the Mexican _mañana,_ you mean."

The Professor nodded. "I believe so, yes. I admit, you — ah — surprised me. From how Mr. Thomas described them, I didn't — ah — expect the Blades to be so thorough. In normal investigative matters, that is."

"Joe and I are different," Frank said. "Because of Dad. It's changing, though. Joshua has us teaching the others things like that."

"Not that everyone listens," Joe said dryly.

"My point," Sybil said, "is that you're wastin' your money. Always in trouble 'round the village, pokin' in where they're not wanted, cryin' wolf, much as that. A lazy good-for-nothin' da, a drunk ma, and she has a very heavy hand, at that — apples don't fall far, they say."

"Yeah, well, fallen apples aren't rotten," Joe snapped, and Frank kicked his shin.

"It's our money to waste," Frank said calmly, but Sybil only shrugged.

"People used to think me and Frank were troublemakers, too," Joe rasped. "And we solved quite a lot because we _poked in where we weren't wanted."_

 _"Joe,"_ Frank said.

Sybil reddened, but stood her ground. "And you were just tellin' those boys that you and your brother don't know the ground. Well, we know those boys. You don't. _You_ are seein' what you want, not what's true."

Frank was glaring at him. Joe met it with a glare of his own. No, he wasn't going to apologize. He'd taken fire because of whatever was going on, and he wasn't going to keep quiet.

"Hmph." Sybil went to the phone, picked up a paper, and laid it down in front of them. "I didn't want to say in front of those two, but your friend called back, after you left."

Frank glanced the paper over, then passed it to Joe. "Keys again. There was some odd stuff. You're right, I don't want to talk in front of those boys, not after what happened to Joe. But Joe tried sensing out the Grail's area for the thieves —"

As Joe and Frank took turns describing what had happened, Rowbotham listened with avid interest, his jaw dropping. "My word. That — ah — matches — I mean, I didn't have nearly so clear a sight when I tried touch-reading it myself. You actually saw _Roman_ soldiers?"

"They looked like it," Joe said. "And those other people were looked like old Irish warriors — all covered in tattoos and blue stuff." He shuddered. "It was that old woman that scared me."

"That doesn't make sense," Frank said. "The Grail was found near here, right? This isn't Ireland."

"But Cornwall's Celtic, ducks," Sybil said. "The Celts are all over the Isles. Many things crossed over and got passed around. Quite a lot, really."

"That old woman," Rowbotham said. "Did you see dogs with her, by chance? Black dogs?"

Joe shook his head, confused. "What's that got to do with it?"

"What you described," Rowbotham said. "Her dress, her appearance — she sounds like a priestess of the Hecate. Well, the Romans called her Trivia, but she's the same goddess. Black dogs were sacred to her. They would sacrifice puppies to her at the new moon."

"Hecate," Joe said, staring at the paper.

"The Goddess of magic," Rowbotham said. "Witchcraft. And — ah — necromancy. Ghosts. And crossroads."

"There's something else," Frank said. "Down in the basement, we found a big hole in the wall. Like something had been gouged out."

Joe shifted uneasily. Keys. Tag was claiming that Hecate was the Keeper of the Keys to the Underworld, the land of the dead, and that Pickenbaugh's group seemed to be using Roman stuff. And his vision had one of her priestesses. He did _not_ need this.

The Professor nodded. "The key. Quite. That puzzled me as well, lad, even before. It was an antique key cemented into the wall. I uncovered it when I had the stone refaced, but the prior owners had no idea what it was, either. I simply kept it as — ah — a mystery for visitors."

"Joe's attackers drew a key on his chest," Frank said.

"It wasn't worth anything," Rowbotham said. "Monetarily, I mean. Common black iron. I tried touch-reading it, but — ah — couldn't see anything from it."

"But the thieves stole it, too," Frank said. "There's no such thing as coincidence. _Especially_ not in crime."

Joe had heard enough. He shoved to his feet with his crutch and into the living room, stopping only long enough to pull his shoes on, then out the front door into the snow and cold, closing the door carefully behind him.

Breathe, slow and deep. Joe's breath blew out in clouds of white steam that curled and vanished in the air. He'd been too close to death too many times over the past months. He'd dealt with Samedi — Saint Expedite, the Voodoo _loa_ of death — in both New Orleans and San Francisco, encounters that had been directly responsible for both Joe and Frank being in the Blades and having their whole lives turned inside out. Joe had been helping Tag with her project of assisting stuck spirits and hauntings to _move on_ , and because of _that_ , he'd gotten involved with two little ghosts in New York, children who'd been trapped in a hellhole of a mental asylum since the turn of the century.

"I'm getting really tired of this," Joe growled, under his breath. "We're _through._ Find someone else. You got along just fine without me up 'til now, and the Underworld can _continue_ to get along without me. Got it?"

Someone _laughed_ , right in his ear.

With a gasp, Joe rounded, slipped on a missed patch of ice and lost his balance, but caught himself with his crutch at the last moment, and stood there, heart pounding.

The front door opened. Frank stepped out, only to stop, staring at Joe. "Something wrong?"

 _The Underworld isn't just for the dead, dearie._

Teeth clenched, Joe studied the surroundings carefully with mage-Sight. Whoever was trying to pull this on him —

"Joe," Frank said, and something in his brother's voice brought Joe's gaze up.

Past the front gate, across the three-way intersection of narrow road, stood Mary Ellerbee, bundled in a black coat and thick boots, the polka-dot bandana around her head incongruous and unreal. She cackled, loud and shrill, pointing at them with a trembling, bony hand.

 _"The curse — the witch's curse! To you I say, avaunt!"_


	15. Dare

_**A/N: I've been engrossed in digging up family roots, and totally lost track of time. Happy belated Imbolc/Candlemas, and thanks to BMSH, Caranath, DuffyBarkley, Xenitha, Paulina Ann, & Robin's Egg forl the comments & reviews!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Frank had to admit, of all the ways he and Joe had ever been threatened, a so-called witch shrieking a curse in the middle of the street was a first.

Neither he nor Joe reacted. They only watched Mary Ellerbee scurry off down the street.

"I get the feeling she doesn't like us," Joe said.

"I never would've guessed. What happened? You look like you've seen a ghost — an unexpected one, I mean."

"I heard something. Right in my ear. Someone saying that _the Underworld isn't just for the dead._ The really weird thing is it sounded familiar."

"The voice?"

Joe nodded.

Quieter, "Samedi?"

"No."

With a relieved, long sigh, Frank settled against the stone wall. "Okay. Think it through. There's a lot of things that people call the _Underworld._ Like the In-Between. And wherever shamans and medicine people go when they trance. And a lot of other religious stuff, for that matter."

"Yeah, well, so _why_ would someone would say that to me? And _who?"_

"I'd say major suspect number one went that-a-way." Frank nodded in the direction Ellerbee had gone. "She's Gifted?"

"Yeah." Joe stared out at the street. "She tried the psychic version of a shoving match in the cafe. It didn't feel like mage-Gift, though."

"Probably a 'path. I find it odd that she's pulling stuff with a couple strangers. We just got here, after all."

Joe sighed. "We've probably stepped into the middle of something. A neighborhood feud."

Frank echoed the sigh. That was the last thing they needed. "Let's talk to Sibyl. And then the constables, so they know we're investigating for the Professor."

"And then some Christmas shopping," Joe said, his mouth quirking. "Nip told me there's a whole artisan community here. We can talk with the locals that way."

"About that." Frank had deliberately put his Christmas shopping off. Getting unique gifts from England was too good an opportunity and it gave them an excuse to explore. "How'd you meet that guy?" He opened the door and gestured Joe in ahead of him.

"Last night," Joe said, and Frank listened as Joe described his walk with Nip. By that point, they were back in the kitchen. The Professor sketched out a small map for them, showing the location of the Tre Marrak farm and the artisan shops, as well as where Pickenbaugh's group was, and the nearby Craighead castle. When Frank and Joe told of what had happened with Mary Ellerbee — both in the cafe and out on the street — Sibyl sighed and shook her head.

"She was a good woman, once," Sibyl said. "Tread gentle with her. Better fit if you leave her be altogether. She lost her son two years ago. He went out with the fishing boats and never came back."

"She's quite the local character," the Professor said. "Her daughter runs the cafe. She usually keeps Ma Ellerbee in check, but…ah…"

"She's gone loony," Sibyl said bluntly. "Last year, that was. Pickenbaugh's corbies claimed they could bring her son back. Dafter than a buzza, that. But ayes, she's Gifted. The Sight and the talking — that last like to have driven her mad."

"The talking?" Frank said.

"Spirit talking, mind talking. She's always muttering to those unseen. I've tried to tell her to simply let be, but she's not one to do that. Interferin', she is. Spirits are best left alone."

"We'll keep that in mind," Frank said.

"Not like they ever give me any choice," Joe muttered.

"There's always a choice," Sybil said. "Always."

Frank and Joe looked at each other. Another of the Blades' run-rules: _be aware of your choice._

"And…ayes," Sybil said, with a sigh. "There's feuds. There's always feuds. People are people, like. That one doesn't care for what the other said at a wedding three year gone, someone planted beans too near a property line. But that's not what you'ms askin' about."

Frank waited. Bayport had plenty of the small feuds, too, and Aunt Gertrude was news-center-central for all of it.

"Pickenbaugh's group." Sybil's mouth twisted. "They want power. We ignore them. They keep braggin'. We won't listen. They…do things."

"Things?" Joe said.

" _Cheeldern_ pranks, mostly. Until last night, anyway."

"They've escalated, you mean," Frank said, and Sybil nodded.

Well, it wasn't like they hadn't expected it.

The wind and snow had picked back up when Frank and Joe finally headed back out through the winding, narrow roads towards the local constables' office, a thin two-story, white-stone building with black-framed windows squeezed between two shops. Only a small sign on the front was any clue to its identity. There was a snow-covered wooden bench to one side of the door, with a trash can next to it, and the front walk was large, uneven slabs of rough rock.

"Don't mention the boys unless he brings it up first," Frank murmured as he pushed the door open.

They squeezed through the narrow entryway to the first open room to the left — the room was cramped, with filing cabinets wedged wherever there was space, two desks squeezed between them, and a large chalkboard on the wall with officers' names and statuses listed.

The cop at the desk eyed the brothers as they came in. His uniform looked nothing like the bobbies on TV and more like Bayport police outfits, save for the bright black-and-white checkerboard band around the cap. The man himself was amply-built, his graying hair cut short, with dark eyes and a beaky nose.

"Ayes?" The officer sounded bored _._ His desk was a mess of papers, several in/out boxes stacked on top of each other, and a large mug steaming with coffee, next to a James Bond paperback face-down.

Frank noted the name on the badge: _Daniel Helyer._ "We're the Americans staying with Professor Rowbotham," Frank said. "The Professor said he'd told you about the attack last night. We wanted to file a formal report."

Helyer shrugged and pushed up from his seat, going over to root through a filing cabinet and pull out a carbon-papered form, which he handed to Frank. "Won't make much difference. But ayes, you can do that. You get a good look at them?"

"It happened too fast," Joe said. "They had me down with a knife at my throat before I got more than a fast glance."

"Mmmm-mmm. Just fill that out, then. We'll look into it."

"Officer, I don't know about here," Frank kept his voice calm and even, "but in the States, that's assault with a deadly weapon."

"Spot-on, lad. You don't know about _here._ Just fill that out and leave it, ayes?"

"You don't want the details?" Joe said.

Catching the tone of Joe's voice, Frank stepped on his brother's foot and glared at him. They didn't need to antagonize the cops.

"That's what that's for." Helyer nodded at the form.

Telling the victim to fill out the report form wasn't how it was done back home, but then again, they weren't back home. Frank elbowed Joe when Joe opened his mouth again. "We wanted to let you know we're investigating for the Professor, too," Frank said.

That earned Frank a slow up-and-down once-over. "Ohhh? Bit young for that, I'd say. You can't be investigatin' much."

"The museum robbery," Joe said with heat, despite Frank's second elbow. "And if you're not —"

"The Professor's concerned that all the focus on the Grail might mean his other stuff'll be forgotten," Frank overrode Joe. "He's a friend of our father's, sir, and asked Dad for help."

"Lad," Long-suffering, with heavy emphasis on that word, "leave it for the Yard and Interpol. We don't need Yank amateurs pokin' 'round in police business."

"We aren't _amateurs_ ," Joe snapped. "And you don't seem in any hurry to do business —"

"What my brother means," Frank said over top of Joe, with another foot-trod, "is we don't want to step on any toes —"

"Heya, Helyer." Another constable poked his head into the room, saw Frank and Joe, and straightened to a more official-looking stance. "I was going down the road for lunch. Heard the voices. Need help?"

"They're just leaving," Helyer said, scowling at Frank and Joe. "The Yanks with Rowbotham."

Frank was about to say more, but the second officer — a dark-haired, stocky man, _Paul Marrak_ on the badge — turned his head so that Helyer couldn't see and winked. "Come on, Joe," Frank said instead, "we've done all we can here. Thanks for your… _help_ ," Frank said, to Helyer.

Helyer only waved in dismissal as Constable Marrak turned back towards him. Frank had a grip on Joe's arm, but Joe shook him off — just as the front door of the constable station banged open and Mary Ellerbee swept in.

Drawing herself up, Ellerbee pointed a wrinkled, bony finger. "Officers, do your duty! Arrest them!"

Both brothers turned to see who Ellerbee could be pointing at, but no one else was in the hall. "Us?" Joe said. "What for?"

"Malicious mischief," Mary Ellerbee hissed, brandishing a large book. "They're witches, constable. _Witches."_

"Oh, good," Constable Marrak said. "Perhaps they can turn my wife's mum into a newt."

Frank bit his grin back _hard_ and trod on Joe's foot again so that Joe's snort turned into a coughing fit.

"I've got proof! They're from _Massachusetts,_ Marrak. _Salem._ See here…" Ellerbee opened the book, pointing at the pages, "Melinda Hardy Smith, one of the accused…"

Joe opened his mouth, but Frank caught his gaze and shook his head. Ellerbee obviously wasn't playing with a full deck; arguing would be pointless. Arms crossed, Frank settled against the wall, striving to look bored and impatient. Ellerbee was blocking the hallway, after all, so they couldn't leave until she moved.

"…their direct ancestor! All their kin are _black witches_ —"

Mouth twitching, Joe gazed at the ceiling. Frank yawned.

Then, suddenly, it wasn't funny anymore.

Frank started itching again, the ants-crawling sensation over his arms and chest. When Frank glanced at his brother, Joe nodded, then leveled a _you-must-be-joking_ scowl at Ellerbee.

The itching vanished.

It didn't make Frank feel better. The shields he had from Joe should've blocked whatever Ellerbee was doing to begin with, and the sensation had felt nothing like a 'path, either. But Frank kept his face bored, as if he hadn't noticed anything.

" — we drove their ancestors from here and now they're up to mischief most foul in _revenge!_ "

"Ayes, I can see they're dangerous," Marrak said, breaking into Ellerbee's raving as he guided her into the office. "Come right in and sit yourself in the warm, ma'am, and tell Helyer here all about it. So he can file the official report, like. I'll take these two to the lockup _outside."_ He winked at Frank and Joe.

"Do you have to read us our rights, officer?" Frank said.

"That's a Yank thing," Marrak said. "But ayes, anything you say can be used in court. Go on, you two. Outside."

"They've already hexed your _sons!"_ Ellerbee shrilled, but Frank didn't stay to hear the rest. Joe jerked his head — a clear gesture to _get ahead of me —_ and Frank preceded his brother out the door and back onto the snowy street.

"I can't wait to tell Tag about this," Joe said. To Frank's relief, Joe was grinning. "Cursed and accused of witchcraft all in one day."

"The same hour," Frank said. "And by the same person. What was she doing? _And how'd it get through the shields?"_

Joe shook his head, but then the building door opened and Constable Marrak stepped out. The officer had a notebook and clipboard in hand.

"We can't do anything about your mother-in-law," Joe said. "They haven't covered newts in school yet."

"We could build a bridge out of her," Frank said.

Marrak grinned. "Definitely dangerous, the pair of you, then. Our comfy chairs are being cleaned, so we'll put off the Spanish Inquisition for a bit. Unless you want to pay the fine of a cuppa, that is."

"Gladly," Frank said as he and Joe followed Marrak down the street. "We've already eaten, but we'll be happy to buy you lunch. We need to fill in someone in authority on why we're here."

"No, no, that's bribery. The amount I eat, anyway. Coffee's fine." Marrak hesitated, then, carefully, "For the record, it's not illegal to be a witch. Religion and all, don't y'know."

"Good to know," Frank said. "We're Methodist, though. American Protestant."

"As long as you're not those nutters at Tre Hadley, you could be Martians, for all I care. The Professor was in earlier. I was going to come by for the full tale, but you've saved me a trip." Marrak fell silent as they passed Ellerbee's cafe. "Next corner. The Blue Boar. They're usually quiet about now."

The Blue Boar turned out to be a stone-and-wood inn with thick pub-glass windows, heavy varnished-oak tables, and a stone fireplace at one end of the low-beamed dining room on the ground floor. Marrak nodded at the bartender and led the Hardys to a table in a windowed corner near the fireplace. Over hot coffee and a ploughman's lunch of thick slices of ham, cheddar, and wheat bread, Marrak listened as Joe told him in detail about the attack, and the brothers' explanation of why they were here, including their encounter with Day and Collin in the museum — though Frank left out the fact that he and Joe had recruited the boys.

"Huh." Marrak chewed thoughtfully. "You two don't look old enough to be investigators. Lads your age are usually in our cadets."

Frank and Joe pulled out their AHRD IDs. "We're working for them while we're in school," Frank said, handing his to Marrak. "But we're over here as a favor for Dad. He's got a heavy case load right now, but he didn't want to turn his friend down. So he sent us over."

"Unpaid," Joe said. "Strictly amateur. We don't want to step on your toes. The Professor's just scared his stuff'll be forgotten because of the fuss over the Grail."

Marrak nodded. "Quite. We're leaving the Grail to the Yard ourselves."

"By the way," Joe said, "…Marrak. Like Tre Marrak?"

"The same. I'm the old man's middle son. Black sheep, hate horses, all that. I overheard Nip talkin' to his sister about the Professor's Yanks this morning." Marrak grinned at Joe. "Something 'bout you being the only Yank with sense."

"He wants to hook her up with Older Brother here," Joe said, and Frank rolled his eyes.

Marrak laughed. "Step careful, like. It's a village, don't y'know. Everyone knows everyone's business, as soon as late. Now you tell me one — you implied your da's an investigator. Hardy, as in _Fenton_ Hardy?"

Both Frank and Joe sighed. "Yeah," Frank said.

"I won't go starry-eyed on you, lads. Helyer's boys were yammering about him backalong, and with Granny Ellerbee shrieking about _Massachusetts,_ I wondered."

"Bayport's a ways south of Salem," Frank said. "South of Boston."

"Hmph." Marrak took another bite of his sandwich. "Come along after supper, when Helyer's off shift. I'll let you see the files on the robbery. Strictly under the table, mind. The Yard's been keeping us up-to-date."

That was more than Frank had expected. "Thank you," he said.

"Honestly, you'll get further than we can," Marrak said. "Helyer and I normally don't handle much more than stray livestock and neighborly barneys — anything bigger, we call in the county. Just keep us in the loop."

From there, the chat veered into how the UK police were organized and differences between US and UK cops. Frank took careful notes; the last thing they needed was to run afoul of the UK police through ignorance. Marrak also gave them the names of the inspectors in charge of the Grail case, so they could keep the police informed of whatever they found.

As they stepped out of the inn and back into the snowy street, Marrak glanced around and cleared his throat. "A more serious warning," Marrak said. "If you find anything — _anything —_ that appears to lead to those nutters at Tre Hadley, do not go out there. Tell me, and I'll pass it to the county. We suspect they're behind the uptick in local harassment —"

"Like what happened to me," Joe said.

Marrak nodded. "Steer clear, I believe you Yanks say. The mindset out there is nasty, petty, and self-centered — not a good combination."

"Local harassment?" Frank said.

"Vandalism," Marrak said. "Blood on doors. Dead birds strung up in trees. Phone calls. Poison pen notes. That kind of thing. There's been a couple suspicious fires, too, but we haven't connected those. Yet."

Not what they needed to hear. "We'll be careful," Frank said.

With that, Marrak took his leave, heading back towards the station with a casual wave. Frank shivered as the wind picked up, huddling in his coat.

"Local harassment," Joe sighed. "He's got a gift for understatement. Where to?"

Frank smiled. "Christmas shopping. Let's get ourselves planted in the locals' heads as tourists and let 'em chatter at us. Play up the cripple bit — if we can get folks on our side because of a ' _cowardly attack on a helpless cripple'_ , even better."

"And of course, if they happen to offer us any discounts to make up for their neighbors' rudeness…" Joe's voice trailed off, but he was grinning.

"You got it." Frank glanced around. No one in immediate earshot, but he still lowered his voice. "Ellerbee's attack got through."

Joe shook his head.

"Come on, Joe, I felt it!"

"That's just the warning system. I…uh…tinkered a bit so you'd know when someone was trying to nail you. I guess I should've told you." Joe hung his head and looked sheepish, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

"Brothers," Frank muttered. "Can't live with them, not enough skin for a decent rug."

"Yeah, right, admit it, you need me to keep things interesting." Then Joe looked up, staring across the street.

Out of the corner of Frank's eye, something moved.

Before Frank could react, Joe shoved him —

— as a knife flashed through where they'd been.


	16. Do Ya Thing

_**A/N: Thanks for all the reviews & comments! Since FFNet wasn't posting reviews most of this week & wouldn't let me respond to them via PM, either, it's time to answer questions. "Ayes" is pronounced "eyes", as best I could tell from BBC vids of native Cornwall residents. Officer Marrak is part of the family whom Nip works for; Nip is a groom for the Marrak's horses (as in the original book). Officer Helyer is Collin & Day's dad. Joe's altered Frank's shields to give Frank a warning if someone was attacking magically, but Joe did fix the problem so no one else can attack Joe through Frank's shields. However, shields aren't 100% fail-proof; like kevlar, you'll know if something hits you, and they can be breached. In the original book, Mary Ellerbee is insane, or at least suffers from dementia; while the book beats you over the head with "She's One Of The Bad Guys!", I only felt sorry for her. So...well...you'll see.**_

 _ **On with the story!**_

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Shoving Joe off and scrambling to his feet, Frank hauled Joe up and around the corner of the nearest building, and both planted their backs against the wall, panting. Caution be damned: Joe clenched his fist, yanking up as much energy as he could reach, ready to blast anything that moved, as he and Frank leaned forward to peer around the corner.

"I can do without _interesting_ like this, thanks," Frank muttered.

Ignoring that, Joe studied the knife and the street beyond. The knife was buried to the bolster in a wooden post of a storefront, and no one seemed to have noticed anything, though a few pedestrians on their side stared at them in open curiosity. Across the street, people walked and window-shopped as if nothing had happened. Closer at hand, the store window displayed fancy ironwork, with the painted sign over it announcing "Eagleton Greene Metalwork" and under that, in smaller block letters, "Lance McKnight, Blacksmythe".

"You'd think dodging knives is normal around here," Frank said. "I don't see anything suspicious. You?"

"I thought…" Joe stared up and down the street, looking over each person in view and all possible places a person could be concealed. Finally he shook his head. Whatever had caught his attention was gone.

Carefully the brothers eased out to get a closer look at the knife. A true throwing knife: small, smooth black finish, no quillon, no manufacturer's mark, no decoration — no, wait. Without touching it, Joe pointed at the top of the hilt: a crude pentagram had been scratched into it.

"Great," Frank said.

The door creaked open. "Get on! What are you two about —" The voice cut off. A burly, bearded man with tangled graying hair, a faded-blue, woolen shirt and worn leather apron, stared at them and at the knife in his storefront in open shock.

"Someone threw that at us," Frank said.

"In you go, quick. I'll ring the constable." The man ushered them into into his store, shut the door, and went back around the counter to the store phone.

"Ask for Officer Marrak," Joe said to the man. "We were just talking to him. Tell him there's a pentagram on the hilt."

"A _what_ , now?"

Joe glanced at his brother. "A pentagram. A circled star."

"I know what that is." The man hung up the phone.

"You're not calling the cops?" Frank said.

"It won't do any good. So what were the pair of you doing, that warranted such a knife at your backs?" The man didn't sound hostile, but not friendly, either.

"Just Christmas shopping," Frank said.

"Yeah, we didn't realize the local Scrooges were armed and dangerous," Joe said.

"Americans, eh?"

"We're staying with the Rowbothams," Frank said. "They're friends of our parents. We're studying mythology in college, and the Professor invited us over because of the Grail."

Joe wanted to applaud: Frank had made two separate, unrelated sentences sound as if they were not only related, but happily married with two-point-five kids. While the man thought that over, Joe took the chance to look around, leaning a bit heavier on his crutch than he needed to. The small, cramped shop smelled of hot metal, burning charcoal, and dry wood. Iron chandeliers hung from the ceiling, ranging from small 3-candle rings to large, multi-tiered wheels of a dozen or more lights. Behind the counter, swords and heavy axes were displayed, with weathervanes, garden tools, hanging lamps, bird-feeders, and other decorative things festooning the other walls.

"You do all this yourself?" Joe said.

The man shrugged.

"Look, could you drop the mysterious act?" Frank sounded irritated. "Someone threw a knife at us. If there's some feud going on, we'd like to know, so we can stay out of it."

At the front counter, Joe had spotted something interesting. "Especially since that knife out front looks an awful lot like these." He nodded at the row of throwing knives inside a glass display case.

"They're from London," the man snapped. "It's a common make."

"I'm more interested in those." Frank pointed at the shelf below the knives: large cast-iron keys.

"Are you, now," the man said flatly.

Frank shrugged. "A friend of ours collects old keys. He's weird that way. Odd thing to sell, though. Do you get them from London, too?"

Scowling, the man said nothing.

"C'mon, Joe," Frank said. "We can come back later. After we check our friend's collection to see what he's missing."

Keeping his expression carefully neutral, Joe followed his brother back out to the street. The moment the door closed behind them, Joe blew out a breath. "I'm not sure if you scored a bullseye in there or not."

Glaring at the knife still buried in the wooden post, Frank stopped, yanked on his gloves, grabbed the hilt, and wrenched the knife out with a splintering crack. "Finders keepers," Frank snarled, as he wrapped the knife in a handkerchief and stowed it carefully in his jacket's inner pocket. "Bullseye or not, I don't care. Refusing to call the cops when someone's attacked. So _nice_ to know who's on the side of the nut-jobs."

Joe lowered his voice. "He was really obvious, huh?" He glanced through the store window: the man was still watching them.

"Yeah." Frank started walking. "If he's one of the local nuts, they _can't_ be behind the thefts, because anyone who could pull those off had to be _smart_. Someone _that_ stupidly obvious…" Frank shook his head.

"Intimidation factor, maybe?" Joe hazarded. "Or he's _been_ intimidated and thinks we're involved."

"Or he's just stupid." Frank sighed. "Or any number of things. Bit-player, at most. We'll go back later. I'd like to check that key display again."

"We can't tell which key was in the museum wall, Frank."

"No, but it'll be interesting to see if any keys are suddenly gone from that case."

With a glance back towards the smithy, Joe let his voice return to normal volume. "Did you see that curved sword? Tag would've loved that."

"The one with the Tolkien runes? Yeah. Maybe when we go back, there'll be another clerk."

They kept their talk deliberately on Christmas shopping, passing an antiques dealer and "fine hand-embroidered linens." A shop sign proclaiming "Jacob Dougal & Sons, Gunsmith, est. 1860" made them both pause, but then Joe spotted a window display of carved wooden toys and puppets under a carved sign reading "Eagleton Greene Toys & Novelties" and started across the street.

"You would," Frank said, smiling.

"Rita and Eme."

"Uh-huh."

Joe heaved a dramatic sigh as he pushed the door open and its bells jangled. "You never give me a break, you know that?"

"You're that predictable," Frank said, and then they pulled up short.

In front of them stood a tall, googly-eyed, goofy-grinned, wooden giraffe, its head topped with a costume crown and a rainbow of glittery sequined bow-ties down the full length of its neck. Its snout was level with Joe's nose.

"No," Frank said, as Joe opened his mouth. " _No._ "

"But —"

"I'm not going to explain to Josh why we need extra airfare for a giraffe."

Giggles and a few snorts from other customers inside the small shop answered that. Behind the counter, a young, chunky woman with a tumble of dark curls and wearing a shopkeep apron smiled at them. "Sorry. King George isn't for sale, I'm afraid."

"Did you…?" Frank nodded at the giraffe.

"Oh, no. Father's our master woodcarver." Her smile widened as she looked Frank up and down. "Americans?"

"Guilty as charged." Frank smiled back. "Christmas shopping. We're looking for something unique for some kids we know."

"You know, that's _my_ excuse you're stealing," Joe said.

"By the way, what's Eagleton Greene?" Frank said, as if Joe hadn't spoken. "We've been seeing that on signs around here."

"Oh, that's the original name of the village," the girl said. "Griffinmoor took us over backalong when the county re-districted. Some hard feelings, still."

But Joe's attention was caught by a nearby display: a sturdy toy Noah's Ark crammed with bulbous elephants, roly-poly penguins, regal lions, curly-q'd snakes, and goofy monkeys, complete with a simplistic Noah and his wife in the small hut on the deck. Fascinated, Joe lifted out an elephant, then realized the top deck lifted off: still more animals were tucked inside the ark, including a unicorn. "Only one unicorn?"

The girl winked. "That's why they're extinct."

"Ritacita," Joe said to Frank. He didn't have to look at the price tag; it was a sale, no matter what. Little Rita's current _what-I-want-to-be-when-I-grow-up_ was a veterinarian, and given how the cats and dogs of Bay Area Center always crowded around her, Joe gave her good odds of achieving that. Over the summer, Joe and Frank had become "big-brothers" to Rita and her brother Emelio; Rita still thought they were her personal guardian angels.

"We offer shipping back to the States," the shop girl said helpfully.

Frank smiled again. "Our problem's her brother. He's at that age. Nine. We don't want to spark a fight over toy disparity."

"He's only got two speeds, fast-forward and face down," Joe added.

"That's what Mar used to say about you," Frank said.

The girl nodded at a display near the cash register. "Maybe these? Proper English knight stuff. Father's a stickler for history."

Wooden swords and shields. The shields were carved with colorful heraldic designs, the swords sanded smooth with pommels set with plastic and glass gems. One shield, though, caught Joe's eye: engraved with a lion's head, meticulously stained and detailed, its mane gold-leafed and its eyes sad and wise.

"Oh, wow," Joe breathed. "Aslan?"

The shop girl nodded, though her gaze flickered to Joe's scarred left hand. "Father loves those stories. We also have the lion rampant, if you prefer historical accuracy."

"Downs'll kill us if we get Eme anything like a weapon." But Frank sounded as if he was wavering.

"Not Eme. _Tag._ Forget that Tolkien thing — hey…wait." Glimpsing something odd behind the rows of medieval heraldry, Joe moved the shields aside, and with Frank's help, pulled the culprit out.

" _That_ was an experiment." The shop girl made a face. "National G did a spread on the Aztecs, and he thought it'd make a good shield design. Not much interest, though. Tourists want proper English souvenirs."

It was another shield, but completely unlike the others. Round and carved with a stylized red-and-orange sun encircled in bright green and blue spikes, the outer rim carved with squat, square figures — Joe turned it around and around, fascinated by the detail.

"It's supposed to be the Aztec calendar," the shop girl said. "Father did a matching sword, but it's so frightfully odd that we keep it in back so we don't scare off the parents. Here, I'll show you." She ducked into the back room and came back with something in her hands.

It had a hilt and a pommel, but it looked like a long wooden paddle, not a sword, and it was engraved with a stylized snake with feathers in brilliant blues, greens, reds, and yellows. Around the edges of the paddle, real feathers were inset in the wood, hard duck feathers. Joe couldn't take his eyes off it: the carving was deceptively simple, but gorgeous.

"Some heathen name for it," the girl said. "That snake's something they worshipped. The parents think it's too scary."

"A _macuahuitl._ " Frank took it from her and hefted it. "The snake's _Quetzalcoatl,_ the Feathered Serpent. In the real ones, there'd be sharpened obsidian where those feathers are."

"Been on an Aztec kick lately, I take it? _"_ Joe said.

Frank gave him a _look._ "If you'd taken high school Spanish instead of drooling over the girls in your Latin class…"

"My brother, the walking encyclopedia," Joe said to the shop girl. "He's useful sometimes."

"What my little brother means is that you've made some sales," Frank said. "Eme's going through a Mexican pride thing, so we'll take the Aztec stuff off your hands, too."

"Oh, good," Joe said. "Now I can shove all the blame off on you when Downs hits the ceiling."

Then the shop girl (who introduced herself as Katie) offered free gift wrapping, and at that, they fell into chatting. Under the guise of finding out where to find good handmade things for gifts, they soon had the lowdown on most of the store owners.

At hearing a carefully-edited version of their encounter at the blacksmith shop, Katie shook her head. "Don't mind Lance. He's all mouth and no trousers. His partner's better. Does custom parts for historical guns."

"That's the gunsmith shop?" Joe said as Frank wrote out the shipping addresses, and Katie snorted.

"That's just to lure in you rich tourists. He mainly sells to the high-end collectors and museums."

"Joshua," Joe said to Frank, who nodded.

"Friend of ours is into old guns," Frank said to Katie. "Former military. Bit of a history nut."

"Worth a look, then. There we go," Katie said, taking the addresses. "With overseas shipping, I can't guarantee Christmas, but by New Year's, definitely."

"Finally, someone friendly," Joe murmured to Frank, as they left the store with cheery waves at Katie. "I was starting to wonder if we'd ticked the whole town off. Gunsmith?"

"Worth a try. Hopefully he won't — hey. That guy across the street. The green coat."

Joe glanced over. The person was hurrying down the street away from them, but the shape and coat looked familiar. " _Chet?"_

"C'mon." Frank started across the narrow street.

"If he looks back, he'll see us."

"If he looks back, he'd better stop, because he'll have some explaining to do," Frank said in a low voice. "Keep the cripple act up."

Joe let himself sag and struggle with the snow-covered street and verge more than he really had to. That allowed them to stay some distance behind the figure — if it was Chet. Whoever it was had pulled his scarf up and stocking hat down enough to hide his face, and Joe didn't recognize any of the other visible clothing. The person turned at the first intersection, but Frank and Joe crossed it without turning themselves. They stopped on the opposite corner and paused, turning just enough to watch where the person was going.

Pausing at the door of a two-story gray building, the person looked around furtively, then went in.


	17. Kids with Guns

**_A/N: Thanks to Caranath, Barb, BMSH, DuffyBarkley, & FanHB08 for the reviews!_**

 _ **# # #**_

* * *

 _ **# # #**_

Feigning exhaustion, Joe collapsed against a nearby wall. "I have to sit," he said, for the benefit of passersby. "All the walking's doing a number on my legs."

"Here." Frank helped him to a nearby bench outside a druggist's store, within view of the house the person had entered. There they both settled to keep watch.

"If that's not Chet, it's someone who's just as awful at being sneaky," Joe murmured, as he played up massaging his calves. "Follow him in?"

Frank shook his head. "Put up a mouse-trick. We'll follow him when he comes out. If it is Chet, I don't want to embarrass him."

"No such thing as coincidence."

"And be aware of your choice," Frank sighed. "Sometimes I wish that wasn't so right."

A moment of concentration and a push of energy set up the small magic that encouraged people to ignore them. It wasn't invisibility. If Frank or Joe did anything to draw attention, the magic would break, usually getting everyone's attention over-focused on them as a result.

 _For every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction._ Joe sighed. Magic followed the rules, just like everything else, even when it was really inconvenient. _Especially_ when it was really inconvenient. Kris called it the Law of Perversity, though Frank claimed it was just Murphy's Law with nothing spooky-stuff about it.

No matter what it called itself, Joe believed it.

He waited as long as he could bear it in the snow and wind, but the person didn't re-appear. "Frank, c'mon," Joe said finally. "We're not prepared for a stakeout. If it is Chet, we'll catch him again. It's a small village. And I'm freezing my butt off."

"God forbid," Frank said. "This place has too many random asses already."

They backtracked towards the gunsmith's shop. Inside, two men were deep in conversation at a workbench towards the back. Both looked up when the door chimes jingled.

"Can I help 'ee, lads?" one man said, lean and grizzled, with thick muscled arms, a rough beard, and thick sweater that made him look like an old salt on any of Bayport's tourist piers.

The second man wasn't familiar, to Joe's relief: a nerdy pipsqueak wearing thick glasses. Joe hadn't wanted to deal with the blacksmith guy again. The shop was small, lined with wooden workbenches and a variety of specialized tools, rifle-stocks, and assorted pieces. Behind the counter, the wall was filled with rifles and muskets, while another workbench held scattered metal parts.

"We don't know," Frank said. "We've got a friend who collects guns, and we're Christmas-shopping. The girl at the wood-carver's shop told us about this place."

"Yanks, ayes?" the first man said. "I don't sell live guns here. Not unless 'ee have very specific licenses from Her Majesty's government."

"Nothing like that. He collects older stuff, from about the Civil War and older."

"Cowboys and Indians," Joe added.

"Civil War?" the man said.

"Our Civil War," Frank said. "US, I mean. Mid-1800s, at most."

"Talk to you later, Jake," the nerdy guy said, as he got up and headed for the door. "I'll pick it up next week."

"I don't want to drive 'ee away, mind," Jake said to Frank and Joe. "But the collector's pieces might be more than you're prepared to spend. If you'm's not collectors yourselves, 'ee won't know if something's worth the price I'm asking. I mostly sell to museums and collectors. Parts for them as can do the work. Some custom work for re-enactors."

"Definitely not collector's pieces," Frank said. "But…maybe something for display? Copies to hang on the wall or something like that."

"The guy's our boss," Joe added. "We're trying to get on his good side, if you know what I mean."

Jake grinned. "Some things never change. And ayes, I've got display pieces, sure. Replicas. I specialize in European military history, though, not the States. However, this little beauty —" He turned to nod at the wall behind him. "Right there. That's the Brown Bess. Both sides used it during that rebellion of yours. One right below it's an Enfield —"

That was enough to distract Frank. As Frank chatted with Jake over the guns, Joe eased away to look around the rest of the shop. Replica of antique pistols mounted on fancy placards lined the walls. Too many metal and wooden bits and pieces that he had no clue what they were for were organized in various bins and labeled drawers. Worktables were strewn with wooden stocks, hammers, metal barrels, and lumps of lead, and pegboards were hung with tools and other pieces. Joe wandered through the worktables and along the opposite wall, stopping to peer through an open doorway where the thick stink of charcoal and burning metal wafted through, stinging his eyes and throat.

A huge, deep brick fireplace dominated that room, a thin trail of smoke curling out from it. Odd metal implements hung on hooks to each side and were laid on the workbenches nearby, with a heavy anvil in front of it and chains dangling overhead. Another workbench held half-finished swords. Fascinated, Joe couldn't take his eyes from the fireplace. That had to be the forge. Two buckets sat in front of the fireplace, and at first his glance passed over them, but then they registered and sunk in.

The buckets were stained with reddish-brown streaks.

Joe glanced back. Frank and Jake were still deep in conversation. Quietly as he could, Joe slipped into the forge room and up to the buckets, levering himself down with his crutch. He rubbed his fingers along one of the bucket rims — sticky, not completely dry, and his fingers stung from the rough surface of the bucket — then raised his hand to his face and sniffed. Blood. No doubt of it. He knew that smell. He'd never forget it, not after New Orleans.

Then he realized: his fingers still stung, as if he'd touched barbed wire. He looked down at the buckets — no obvious sharp edges, but...

"'Ee see something interesting there, mate?" Jake stood in the doorway, Frank behind him.

Making a show of rubbing his head, Joe struggled back to his feet. "Lost my balance. Nearly hit my head on the anvil."

Jake's face was expressionless. "Did 'ee, now. An' you're back here why?"

"You have to forgive my idiot brother," Frank said. "He forgets his manners when he sees something interesting. Apologize to the man already, Joe."

Trying to look properly scolded, Joe ducked his head. "Sorry. I've just never seen a forge before. Not like this, I mean. The stuff on TV looks nothing like this."

"It never does," Jake said, his gaze not leaving Joe's face. "This is historical work, it is. Puts me in good stead with the history buffs. But customers are not allowed back here. Insurance rules, don'tcha know."

"I saw the swords. They're really cool. They look like they're right from the movies. Real swashbuckling stuff. Errol Flynn and all that." Babbling as if he didn't have a thought in his head, Joe nodded towards one of the workbenches. "But I thought you only did guns. You share this place with the other guy? The blacksmith?"

"Forges cost money," Jake said. "Good sense to share."

"Yeah, well, one of our friends is really into elves and all that. We saw those curved swords in the other shop and…like…I was just curious. They had that weird script Tolkien made up —"

"Stop bothering the man, Joe," Frank cut him off, "and come on. We promised the Professor we'd be back twenty minutes ago."

Jake stepped back just enough to let Joe get by, and followed the brothers to the door. Frank had a package bundled under his arm. No sooner had they made it out to the street than Jake firmly closed the door behind them and flipped the sign on the door to "Closed", drawing the window blinds down.

"At least he didn't notice you until after I bought this," Frank said, patting the package. "One of the display models of that Black Bess rifle, complete with wall mount, _and_ I bargained him down by a good fifty bucks. What'd you find?"

"Nothing much. Just magic buckets of blood."

Frank stopped.

Joe grinned. "Something wrong?"

"Of all the brothers in the world, I had to get you," Frank muttered. "Okay, wise guy, are you going to elaborate, or do I have to resort to ice cubes at three A.M.?"

"Wow, you'd think we're related or something, with those threats," Joe said, then raised a hand in mock surrender. "All right, all right." He lowered his voice, keeping his face set in a pleasant expression. "Two buckets. Blood-stained. _Definitely_ blood," he added, when Frank raised an eyebrow. "I know the smell. And no, I didn't get the chance to look for magic. But something stung my hand when I touched 'em."

Frank said nothing for a long moment. "So that's why you asked if he shared that forge. Sooo…was he angry because you snuck back there, or because you found the buckets?"

"Maybe I set off an alarm when I touched those buckets."

"That doesn't make sense. Why ward something like that?"

"Residue, then. Whatever they used when they took me down. And what's it have to do with the Professor's museum getting cleaned out?"

" _If_ it has anything to do with it. From the way Sybil talked, it might just be a neighborhood feud. Officer Marrack hinted about that, remember."

Joe sighed. "I hate complications. Why don't we just hang a sign around our necks that says 'We're just here for the thieves and don't care about your witchy feuds'?"

"Because those witches might _be_ the thieves," Frank said, giving Joe a _you-know-better-so stop-griping_ glare. "If it's not connected with the other thefts, they might have wiped out the museum just to hurt the Professor."

Joe looked up at the sky, then checked his watch: it was only about two-thirty, yet the sun looked too low in the sky.

"Northern latitudes," Frank said, yawning, his voice louder without being obvious that he wanted to be heard. "It gets dark early up here. We've still got a couple hours of daylight. I don't know about you, but I'm still jet-lagging. Let's head back."

Last night had been a busy night, and Joe was feeling it in his legs and back. With a yawn of his own, he stretched, glancing around the street.

The guy in the green coat was behind them. Joe made a show of stretching again. "Green Coat's back there," he muttered to Frank.

"Following us?"

"Looks it."

They walked in silence for a bit, stopping at shop windows so they could watch their follower through the reflections. After several such window-shopping acts — including stops to buy a ceramic tea-kettle painted with ivy for Mar and a heavy woolen bathrobe for Aunt Gertrude — Joe still couldn't tell who their tail was. By that point, the snow was falling heavily enough to obscure all reflections, and whoever it was stayed two or three shops behind them.

"I'm torn," Frank said finally, in an undertone. "I want to confront him, but —"

"— it might not be Chet," Joe finished for him.

Frank nodded. "And if it is, why hasn't he said 'hey'? That's not like him."

"That's what scares me. Because the only reason I can think of is the Pickenbaugh thing."

"Exactly," Frank said, then fell silent again.

"Let's just keep going and lead him back to the Rowbotham's," Joe said. "That way he knows where we are. Those lunatics know we're there already, so it's not like we're can hide."

Frank didn't respond. The silence held all the way back to the Rowbothams', as did their tail. When they reached the house, Joe turned just enough to directly look behind him. Green Coat lagged a ways back down the road before the person dodged around a corner.

"Still can't tell," Joe said, as he and Frank stomped the snow off their shoes and went into the house. "Whoever it is was bundled up so it hid their face."

Frank nodded. "Sybil?" he called out. Noise thumped upstairs for a few seconds until Sybil poked her head down the stairwell; she had a kerchief around her hair and wore thick work gloves. "Joe and I need to do a bit of magic-work. Will that interfere with anything here?"

"No, but best keep it in your room," Sybil said. "Take what you'm's need from the kitchen. I'm getting the Yule decorations from the attic, so yell if 'ee need me."

Up in their room, Frank pulled the handkerchief-wrapped knife out and laid it on the nightstand. "Need the fire going?"

Joe shook his head. "It'll just get too hot in here. Make yourself useful and go get some salt and water."

"Getting bossy in your old age," Frank said, grinning, and headed back downstairs.

Joe pulled the locked duffel bag out from under the bed and rummaged through it for the candles, braided silk, and compass. After laying out a circle with the braided silk, he placed the candles on the directional quarter points. Best to use full ritual protections; he didn't want to accidentally contaminate the Rowbothams' house or let that knife cause havoc.

He picked up the still-bundled knife and set it in the center of the circle. He had to wait for Frank. The water and salt would be used to draw the protection runes, rather than mark up the Rowbothams' floor with chalk. Sooner or later, Joe had to figure out a way to make a portable circle with those symbols.

While he waited, Joe looked over the knife with mage-Sight. It glowed an ugly puke-green, but so dim that he could've mistaken it for a trick of the light. Joe scowled: what had the thrower hoped to do? If the knife had hit them, the blade would've done more damage than any spell. So either the person behind it liked over-doing things — which meant a flashy, egotistical show-off — or they wanted to intimidate the Hardys with both a physical and magical threat.

Joe's scowl deepened. Considering Frank wasn't Gifted, the knife would've gotten the mundane message across, with the magic adding an extra edge for Joe. Definitely a bad sign.

Still, the energy was weak: not much of a threat. What was the point?

Frank came back in, balancing ceramic bowls of salt and water. "They have a well and a pump out back. Sybil says she uses that for her own 'workings', as she calls it. And the salt's sea salt. There's folks down the coast who reclaim it from the ocean." Frank smiled. "She also said 'don't worry about the floor, it survived the Blitz.' I guess that means it'll survive you, too."

"You're really hysterical," Joe said.

Still, local materials, especially hand-made ones, gave more life and energy to any magic. In short order, Joe and Frank were seated inside a glowing circle of candles, the knife between them. It didn't take long — Joe saw a thin line of the same puke-green leading off from the knife, but it broke up a little ways out. A cautious touch of his index finger to the blade earned him a flash of image: a circle of hooded and masked people. But the energy didn't have a structured feel; it was amorphous and vague. It felt off, but in the way that someone yelling incoherently on a street corner did, not like a killer aiming with a gun.

Then he frowned. Something else…underneath…

"Bad?" Frank said.

Whatever it was vanished, leaving only the knife and its puke-energy. Maybe he'd only imagined it; last night had been enough to make anyone paranoid. "Not at all. We'll win the next lottery and have swimsuit babes all over us and the cover of _Time_ —" Joe managed a grin at Frank's eye-roll. "All right, all right. About what you'd think. Just your general run-of-the-mill badness."

"Now you sound like Joshua."

"Well, it feels like what Tag calls 'whoopie witch stuff'. Amateurish. Like they don't really know what they're doing." Joe frowned, trying to put what he'd felt into words. "Like that doll we found with the arsons. Not even magic, really, just general bad feeling."

Frank was silent for a long moment. "They're going for intimidation, you mean."

"Well, there's enough power there that I saw something. And I'm not a touch-reader. A group of people in stupid masks and black robes."

"When you say _stupid masks…?"_

"I mean _stupid masks._ Like what kindergarten kids do with papier-mâché."

"Great." Frank stared down at the knife for a long moment. "A run-of-the-mill, mass-produced knife, with a pentagram that looks like it was scratched on with a rusty nail. I hate it when the bad guys don't take us seriously."

Joe looked up — how much more serious did his brother _want?_ — but Frank's mouth was quirked, and Joe relaxed.

"We might as well face it. These guys are doing everything they can to make sure we know they're watching us and that they're soooo eeeeeeevil." Frank drawled those two words out in the most bored-sounding voice ever. "Let's go ahead and give them what they don't want."

"Move 'em to the top of the suspect list, you mean?"

"That, too," Frank said. "They're so determined to paint a target on their own backs, I'd hate to disappoint them. Especially since they sent us such a wonderful invitation there. But what I really mean is — let's _ignore them."_

Joe blinked.

Frank was grinning. "Put yourself in their shoes. Here they are, so determined to make sure we _know_ they're big-bad evil —"

Joe groaned. He'd run into that in San Francisco enough, after all. "God save us from power-trippers, _please._ "

"— so we ignore them, and they'll either think we're too dense to bother with, _or_ that we've gotten their tiny little point and we're cowering in fear of their Mighty Evilness."

"A win-win situation, you mean," Joe said, starting to grin himself.

"You got it. We keep the investigating on the down-low and play up being dumb American tourists. We've just flashed a lot of money around, after all."

"Might be hard to play stupid with that blacksmith."

Frank shrugged. "We'll see. And once everyone's all relaxed and certain we're nothing but harmless idiot tourists…" His voice trailed off.

"Yeah, well, we've still got the report at the cops to look over. I don't want Marrak thinking we're idiots."

"Can you rule the nutcases out, at least?" Frank said. "You got a really good feel of the Grail at the museum — can you track it at all?"

Joe rubbed at his temples. He'd been so rattled by the attack and their determined follower that he'd overlooked the obvious. First imagining things, now this. "I can try." With the silk wrapped around his hand, Joe picked the knife up and placed it in the bowl of water, then mixed in the sea salt. That done, he reached over and snuffed out the nearest candle, bringing the protections down. "Put that on the hearth for tonight. I'll do the running water thing over it in the morning. I don't want it interfering in the tracking."

His legs had fallen asleep from the hard floor. He waited until the numbness and pain faded, then carefully ran through a couple warm-up stretches as Frank pulled the curtains back to let in what remained of the fading daylight. Then, taking even more care, Joe recast the protection circle, then eased to sit back-to-back with Frank, before carefully reaching out and down to the land.

There, the thick glowing ley-line, and to Joe's dismay, it disturbed the energy for a long ways around, breaking it up with ripples and waves like a constant boat speeding over a lake. Gritting his teeth, Joe tried to listen and reach past that. It wasn't just the ley-line. The land itself was disturbed, and somewhere, something sang, a distant metallic keen…somewhere… _something…there…_

Suddenly darkness loomed in front of him, a shadow with horns and a misshapen goat's face, and behind it, a tall, faint figure of light.

The light smiled.

 _You've come back._

Just as that registered, fire and light _slammed_ into Joe's face.

With a gasp, Joe jolted, then collapsed over his knees, catching himself on his hands before he hit the floor. He stayed that way, breathing hard, until a faint whimper caught his attention, and Joe twisted around…

…in time to see Frank collapse.


End file.
